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GENEVIEVE 

A STORY OF SOUTHERN LIFE 
BEFORE THE WAR OF 
THE STATES 


By 

MRS. EVA HOLMES HALL 



NEW YORK 

THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 


I 9 I 3 


'p'i 5 <* 


Copyright, 1913, by 
The Neale Publishing Company 


FEB 16 1914 

©Cl. A 3 6 199 5 

*•$/ 


CONTENTS 




CHAPTER 

I 

II 

III 

IV 
V 

VI 

VII 

VIII 

IX 

X 

XI 

XH 

XIII 

XIV 

XV 

XVI 
XVII 

XVIII 

XIX 

XX 

XXI 

XXII 

XXIII 

XXIV 
XXV 

XXVI 


The Orphan 

Vivian Bertram 

The Alarm 

The Secret Foe 

The Discovery 

The Revelation 

The Spectre 

The Witch of the Black Tarn 

The Explanation 

The Patriarch 

The Sudden Arrival 

Marion Bertram 

The Maniac’s Dagger 

The Man in the Mist 

Marriage, Life or Death 

The Cave by the River 

The Strange Guest 

An Awful Presence 

The Indian Girl’s Lament for Her 

Lover 

Adieu to the Vale 

Glimpses 

Arthur Trevelyan 

Rosa Vernon 

The Morning Bells 

The Household Angel 

The Island Prison 


PAGE 

7 

19 

33 

45 

61 

77 
92 
104 
1 1 2 
128 
142 
153 
165 
181 
195 
214 
220 
237 ' 

251 
264 
273 
28 1 
290 
301 
3i4 
33i 


CHAPTER 


PAGE 


XXVII The Hermit’s Cell 342 

XXVIII The Golden Beam 352 

XXIX Light Beyond the Gloom 363 

XXX Love’s Labor Won 373 

XXXI Retribution 384 

XXXII The Vale of Sunbeams 392 












CHAPTER I 


THE ORPHAN 


Come to the bridal chamber, Death! 

Come to the mother when she feels 
For the first time her first-born’s breath; 

Come when the blessed seals 
That close the pestilence are broke 
And crowded cities wail its stroke; 

Come in Consumption’s ghastly form, 

The earthquake shock, the ocean storm, 

Come when the heart beats high and warm 
With banquet song and dance and wine, — 

And thou art terrible; the tear. 

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, 

And all we know, or dream, or fear 
Of agony are thine. 

— Fitz Greene Halle ck. 

She was like 

A dream of poetry, that may not be 
Written or told — exceedingly beautiful. 

—N. P. Willis. 

“Dust to dust — ashes to ashes. Man that is bom 
of woman is of few days and full of trouble. He 
cometh forth like a flower and is cut down — he 
fleeth also as a shadow and continueth not.” The 
clods of the valley rattled heavily upon the coffin; 
spectators crowded around the yawning abyss they 
call a grave; tears gathered in the calm blue eyes 

7 


8 


GENEVIEVE 


of the officiating minister; the orphan shrieked 
wildly to God for mercy. Sh ! that wild heartrend- 
ing cry, — that wail of a broken heart! It rang out 
upon the solemn stillness that pervaded the lonely 
country churchyard like the knell of despair, arous- 
ing the echoes that had so long and so peacefully 
slumbered among the neighboring hills. Husbands 
drew nearer their wives as if to shield them. Moth- 
ers clasped their infants to their bosoms as if a 
weak human embrace could drive away the icy 
clutch of grim and awful death. The clouds gath- 
ered darkly around, betokening a fierce autumnal 
storm; the wind chanted mournful funereal dirges 
among the lofty pines and weeping willows; the 
earth was saturated with rain that had previously 
fallen and dead leaves fell thick in the blast. But 
the sexton performed his duty faithfully, though all 
nature seemed groaning and ashen faces looked 
upon him as he heaped the damp sod upon all that 
remained of the tender father, the noble and gallant 
gentleman, who had for a few brief weeks made 
the tiny village, nestled among the green hills, his 
home. 


“Two hands upon the breast, the warfare is over.” 

The crowd scattered; people hurried home. 
Genevieve, the orphan, was borne away uncon- 
scious, white as a snowdrop and just as powerless. 
The angel of the storm swooped down upon the 
place where the angel of death had so long brooded. 
The rain began to descend in torrents; cataracts of 
water deluged the earth; night came on, black and 
tempestuous. 


THE ORPHAN 


9 


Upon a snowy couch in a small, neatly furnished 
room of the village inn reclined the orphaned child 
of the deceased, the “sole daughter of his heart,” — 
the priceless jewel that his dying wife in feeble ac- 
cents had besought him to guard so carefully, to 
cherish so tenderly. The white face looked ghastly 
and rigid, for she had not yet recovered from her 
deathlike swoon. Her glossy auburn ringlets fell 
in rich profusion over her alabaster brow so Ma- 
donna-like in its beauty. Her dreamy brown eyes 
were half closed as if in death, while over them 
swept the long, silken lashes and above them arched 
her delicately penciled brows. Her nose was as 
perfect as that of the Greek Slave, and she had a 
small and delicate mouth. Her parted lips, from which 
all color had fled, revealed a line of pearly teeth. 
Her neck was slender and swanlike; her shoulders, 
slightly drooping, lent an added charm to her other- 
wise perfect figure; her head was small and queenly; 
her complexion as pure as snow, without spot or 
blemish; her ears were round and polished, and her 
feet, hands and waist were of exquisite propor- 
tions. Such was Genevieve De Vere, the heroine 
of our story. Those who had seen her ere this 
sad bereavement remembered that her eyes were 
large and lustrous and of unfathomable depths, re- 
membered upon either white cheek there was a faint 
dash of crimson as clear and cold as a winter sun- 
rise, and that her thin lips were like rows of corals, 
or, better still, like twin rose leaves. But the girl, 
with her sable robes floating around her, looked more 
like a beautiful statue as she reclined pale and mo- 
tionless, while kind hearts and busy hands admin- 
istered restoratives and strove to arouse her from 


12 


GENEVIEVE 


“Alone and friendless,” she murmured, while the 
scalding tears streamed down her cheeks in torrents. 
“Father and mother both gone. Henceforth, I 
must earn my bread, my daily bread; must face the 
cold and pitiless world. There is no light of home 
for me hereafter; no blazing hearthstone; no gentle 
voice to greet me at morn; no loving face to smile 
upon me at eve. Oh, my God!” she cried, raising 
her brimming eyes to heaven, “be Thou my shield 
and hiding-place ; guard me from danger and temp- 
tation; let not the chill blasts of adversity howl 
around me; guide me safely over the shoals and 
quicksands of life; encourage and strengthen me; 
and if there be any false pride in my nature, uproot 
it, lest, like the deadly Upas tree which blights all 
who seek its poisonous shade, it destroy the fair 
flowers of promise which may be springing up in my 
heart. Enable me to go forth bravely and with an 
undaunted spirit to enact my part in the great drama 
of life.” # 

Genevieve’s prayer, — like Jacob’s ladder, — as- 
cended even unto heaven and the Father’s blessing, 
like the dew of Hermon, descended soft and re- 
freshing upon her troubled soul, and she was com- 
forted. Just then Mrs. Browne, the landlady of 
the inn, entered bearing a small tray containing a 
cup of steaming Java coffee, a couple of hot rolls 
and a small dish of delicious golden butter, but the 
girl turned from the food with loathing. However, 
to gratify her hostess who urged her repeatedly, she 
drank half of the coffee and felt strengthened. 
After a few cheering and sympathizing words, Mrs. 
Browne retired, deeming it best to leave the maiden 
alone to wrestle with her sorrow. All that day and 


THE ORPHAN 


13 


the next Genevieve secluded herself, but on the 
morning of the third day she went downstairs, pale 
and composed, and requested Mrs. Browne to dis- 
patch a messenger for the undertaker and the sexton. 
These, living only a short distance from the inn, 
came immediately. Genevieve discharged her debts 
to them, paid the landlady the amount due her for 
board and lodgings, and begged that she would per- 
mit her to remain another fortnight. For said she : 

U I shall not be dependent upon your charity, Mrs. 
Browne. I have money sufficient to defray my ex- 
penses for that length of time, and before its ex- 
piration I shall go to work in earnest to earn my 
bread.” 

The landlady lifted her hands and elevated her 
eyebrows in amazement. 

“Why what can one so young and delicate as you, 
Miss Genevieve, accomplish in this world?” 

“Why, my dear madam,” replied Genevieve, “I 
can do anything. My father gave me a thorough 
English education. I understand French and music 
well; I can teach both and am quite proficient in 
reading, writing, drawing and dancing. I under- 
stand hair work, embroidery, wax work and rosin 
work, and painting, both in oil and water colors. 
For the last two years I have been accustomed to 
cut and make my own clothes, so I could be a seam- 
stress, if necessary.” 

Mrs. Browne’s countenance expressed her aston- 
ishment. She cried, “How is it possible for one so 
young to be so gifted?” 

Genevieve smiled, but said gravely: “I am not as 
highly gifted as you suppose, Mrs. Browne; besides 
I am eighteen years old and not so young as you 


14 


GENEVIEVE 


may imagine. The fact is, for the last eight years 
of my life I have been in one of the best institutions 
of learning in France. My father was desirous that 
I should excel in my studies; I was ambitious and 
did not disappoint him; and this,” she continued, 
untying a blue ribbon which circled her dainty throat 
and to which was attached a chaste gold medal, and 
presenting it to Mrs. Browne, “this testifies to my 
good standing in school and to my ability to teach. ” 

Mrs. Browne took the medal, examined the in- 
scriptions and returned it, saying, “You took first 
honor then?” 

“I did,” replied Genevieve, without the least show 
of vanity, “and this medal is as precious to me as 
was the grand cross of the Legion of Honor to the 
heroic veterans of Napoleon Bonaparte.” 

“Where were your father and mother all those 
years, Miss Genevieve?” 

“My mother was dead; she breathed her last the 
week before I was placed in the seminary. My 
father was traveling over Europe in quest of my 
brother who was stolen in infancy.” 

“And you have a brother?” 

“I do not know. I had a brother once, but 
doubt if he is living now, though my father had a 
settled conviction that he was.” 

“How long since he was lost?” 

“Twenty-one years ago. My parents had been 
married two years, and my brother was a beautiful 
babe a year old. My father thought a band of rov- 
ing gypsies who were camping in the neighborhood 
carried him away and perhaps sold him. They dis- 
appeared that night but were pursued and overtaken. 
No trace of the lost child was discovered, but 


THE ORPHAN 


i5 


it was found that an old woman, one of their num- 
ber, who told fortunes by reading the stars, had 
vanished mysteriously. A search was immediately 
instituted for her, but she was never found. My 
father and mother traveled over the whole of the 
United States, hoping to recover him, but in vain. 
Two years after his disappearance I was born; my 
parents then sailed for Europe, determining to ex- 
tend their search even to the ends of the earth. 
They had read among the news items in some New 
York paper of a couple who, having no children of 
their own, had purchased a lovely waif from a mis- 
erable old vagabond, who inhabited a den at the 
Five Points. The paper stated further that the 
foster parents, who were persons of immense wealth, 
and their adopted child had departed for trans-At- 
lantic shores. And, although my parents went to 
New York, and made many and strenuous efforts to 
learn the names of those people, they never suc- 
ceeded. They even visited the editor of the paper 
in which they had read the article, but he was un- 
able to give them information, declaring that it was 
only an item of news that he had heard, by accident, 
on the street.” 

“Did they ever meet up with persons answering 
to their description in Europe?” 

“Never, though they traversed it from the Atlantic 
Ocean to the Ural Mountains and Caspian Sea. My 
mother’s grief and anxiety undermined her health; 
she died in a foreign land and found a grave be- 
neath the blue skies of Italy. My father still con- 
tinued his fruitless travels and on one occasion, be- 
ing exposed to a furious storm among the Alpine 
Mountains, caught cold, and consumption followed.” 


i6 


GENEVIEVE 


Here the girl broke down and for a few moments a 
perfect tempest of sobs swayed her slender form as 
if it had been a reed or frail aspen leaf. 

“Have you any friends in South Carolina?” in- 
quired the landlady, when the violence of her agita- 
tion had subsided. 

“I think not; my father and mother were quite 
reticent concerning the events of their past. There 
seems to have been a cloud hanging over their early 
wedded life, though not between them, for there 
never was a more devoted and united pair. My 
father expended a large fortune in pursuing his un- 
availing search for my brother; he then wrote 
manuscripts and they, being highly meritorious, 
brought him a liberal reward, and we always lived 
quite comfortably.” 

The landlady was silent but interested. After a 
brief pause Genevieve said: “And now, my dear 
Mrs. Browne, I have unbosomed myself to you; 
you are as thoroughly acquainted with my life’s 
history as I myself am. Will you not aid me to 
find some employment? Can you not procure for 
me some late papers that I may ransack the ad- 
vertisement columns?” 

Mrs. Browne studied a minute; at length she 
said: 

“I have it, Miss Genevieve. Tom Jones, the 
blacksmith, takes the Charleston paper. I’ll run 
over and get it for you.” The little woman donned 
her bonnet and shawl and hurried away. In a few 
moments she returned, bringing the coveted paper, 
and she and the orphan sat down together on the 
little sofa and examined the columns. The very last 
advertisement was the one that suited. It ran thus; 


THE ORPHAN 


i7 


Wanted : A lady of irreproachable character, and of honorable 
parentage, a suitable companion for a young lady of education 
and refinement. Terms liberal. Address Mrs. Bianca Bertram, 
Glenville, S. C. 

Genevieve, for a moment forgetful of her recent 
affliction, clapped her hands and cried out enthusi- 
astically: 

“The very place! Kind Heaven sent that notice 
to me and I must hasten to reply.” 

She ran upstairs, unlocked her trunk, drew from it 
her escritoire, and in a delicate and beautiful hand 
wrote an answer to the advertisement. This was 
soon sealed, directed and dispatched to the post- 
office. That evening she went out to make a few 
necessary purchases, — two black dresses, several 
crepe collars and some crepe trimming for a black 
silk dress already in her possession. These, with a 
black velvet hat and a black cloth cloak, constituted 
her entire mourning wardrobe. For the next week 
Genevieve was quite busy cutting, fitting and making, 
— with deft fingers and those wonderful little ma- 
gicians, — thread, thimble, needle and scissors, — her 
new dresses. 

At the end of that time, she received a letter 
from Mrs. Bertram, agreeing to permit her to be- 
come an inmate of her house. Her preparations 
being completed, she made arrangements to depart 
the following morning; then she set out for a fare- 
well visit to her father’s grave. We will pass over 
the girl’s tears and sobs and prayers; suffice it to 
say that the scene was enough to make angels in 
heaven weep. The next morning Genevieve, fully 
equipped for her journey, stood on the steps. Good 
Mrs. Browne, with tears in her eyes, stood near her. 


i8 


GENEVIEVE 


The stage drove up to the door; the girl sprang in, 
assisted by the driver, who immediately resumed his 
seat upon the box. Another farewell was waved to 
the weeping landlady; then the stage rattled away on 
the macadamized street and the brown-eyed, white- 
souled orphan was on her way to meet her destiny. 


CHAPTER II 


VIVIAN BERTRAM 

“Shadows flitting past the starlight, 

Shadows darkling in the air — 

Shadows in the swaying tree-tops, 

Shadows gliding everywhere. 

Nights like this are born of shadows, 

Everything is weird and dim ; 

Shadowy ghosts haunt every valley, 

With a presence dread and grim.” 

Lord of the lion heart and eagle eye. 

— Smollett’s Ode to Independence. 

The Vale of Gloom, for so many years the home 
of the Bertrams, was a small irregular valley lying 
between two of the large hills which are so common 
in the interior portion of the state of South Caro- 
lina. It was a gloomy and desolate place, though 
fruitful and productive, as the land ever is in the 
Palmetto State where the planters do not deduct 
from it annually tremendous crops of corn, wheat, 
cotton, oats, potatoes and rice without restoring to 
the soil one tithe of that which they take from it. A 
cloud of mist and gloom ever enveloped the Vale, 
obscuring from view the grim and stately old man- 
sion with its lofty turrets, its imposing cupola, and 
19 


20 


GENEVIEVE 


its strange belfry, from which the tones of no bell 
ever resounded. But the place was proverbially 
healthy, no physician having been summoned to it 
for twenty-five years. For its salubrity, then, it was 
as desirable, though not as celebrated, as the far- 
famed Vale of Guldebrand, where the inhabitants 
are said to live to such an extreme old age that the 
grasshopper becomes a burden and they cause them- 
selves to be conveyed to a less healthy climate where 
the “silver cord may be loosed, or the golden bowl 
be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, 
or the wheel broken at the cistern.” 

The Bertrams never visited nor received visitors; 
when strangers happened at their house they were 
entertained hospitably, as thereby some have “en- 
tertained angels unawares.” That a veil of mystery 
hung over the ancient structure, embosomed in this 
secluded, shade-embowered glen, sequestered from 
the busy haunts of life, was evident to all, but 
none dared to penetrate the secret. The old house, 
with its prison-like aspect, remained sacred from in- 
trusion year after year, and of the every-day life 
of its mysterious inmates absolutely nothing was 
known. The Bertrams were haughty and aristo- 
cratic and ever refused to associate with their ple- 
beian neighbors, though 

"I swear, ’tis better to be lowly born, 

Amd range with humble livers in content, 

Than to be perk’d up in a glistering grief, 

And wear a golden sorrow.” 


The mansion was erected by the grandfather of 
the present heir, — who was a general in the Revo- 
lutionary War, — long before the first house was 


VIVIAN BERTRAM 


21 


erected in the little village of Glenville, five miles 
distant. Some of the oldest inhabitants could tell of 
having seen in their early childhood a patriarchal- 
looking old man with white flowing beard and hair 
that had long ago blossomed for the grave, upon 
the verge of which he was standing. Rumor whis- 
pered him to be the youngest son of one of Eng- 
land’s patrician lords, the great and powerful Duke 
of Claremonte. His wife was formerly a lady of 
rank and fashion, and once shone as a brilliant star 
of the first magnitude in London circles during the 
reign of George III and old Queen Charlotte. To 
this noble couple, after several years of married life, 
was born one son, who was educated in Europe and 
who, upon their death, succeeded to the control of 
the estate, having brought with him from England 
a fair Saxon wife. Heaven gave to this pair a 
daughter and son, both of whom were sent to Eng- 
land to be instructed by the best masters, in accord- 
ance with an old English notion. 

The daughter, being much the elder, completed 
her course of study and returned home ere her 
brother had departed, bringing with her a fair- 
haired, blue-eyed maiden, who might have answered 
to Sir Walter Scott’s description of the Lady 
Rowena in “Ivanhoe.” This girl was an orphan, a 
niece of Mrs. Bertram and a legacy bequeathed to her 
by a dead brother. Both maidens had vanished from 
the Vale of Gloom; one had married and gone, but 
the fate of the other was wrapped in mystery. Mr. 
Bertram was dead; his son had long ago returned 
to his native valley, and he and his mother were 
the only occupants of those lordly halls and spacious 
chambers. The Bertrams owned a retinue of ser- 


22 


GENEVIEVE 


vants, but these were under the superintendence of 
an overseer, a taciturn, gloomy man, and lived some 
distance from the mansion in neat and comfortable 
whitewashed cabins. 

It was a dark and dismal day in the Vale. The 
rosy and golden flush of October, its purple clouds 
and magnificent sunsets, had given way to the som- 
bre hues of dreary and stormy November. The vivid 
tints upon the leaves had deepened to a russet color 
and in places they lay heaped in eddies as “thick as 
the autumnal leaves that strewed the brooks in 
Vallombrosa.” The wind no longer sighed softly 
under the eaves of the building, swaying the grace- 
ful, clinging ivy-vines and rocking gently to and fro 
the topmost branches of the “monarchs of the for- 
est” that towered around like grim sentinels upon 
guard. On the contrary, it raved and howled like a 
spirit let loose in Hades, and rattled the casement 
windows as if it would force an unwelcome entrance 
into the silent abode. 

The house was built after an ancient style of ar- 
chitecture, and, with its frowning front and grim 
walls, hoary with age, resembled some feudal castle 
of the medieval period. A dense forest of oaks 
covered the valley, except where clearings had been 
made for the purposes of cultivation, and the foliage 
of these, — during the spring, summer and early 
autumn, — was as dark and green as that of the trees 
in Sherwood Forest, where Robin Hood, with Friar 
Tuck and Little John, held high revel night and day. 
The same verdure crowned the surrounding hills. 
A small brook flowed through a portion of the val- 
ley, but instead of babbling as brooks are wont to 
do glided silently along, now washing the gnarled 


VIVIAN BERTRAM 


23 


and shrunken roots of some giant oak, and anon 
threading its way beneath the interlacing boughs of 
some fallen monarch which lay extended, in departed 
glory, across its narrow channel. The feathered 
songsters of the woods had been infected by the all- 
pervading gloom and even in the laughing spring, 
instead of warbling their epithalamiums, chanted re- 
quiems for the dead. 

But we have contemplated the surroundings and 
exterior of the mansion a sufficient length of time; 
let us enter, therefore, and be at home, for in that 
house most of the scenes of our story are to be en- 
acted. There was but one entrance, and that was a 
massive gate imbedded in the thick and impervious 
wall. The ground within the inclosure was covered 
by the lespedeza, — a species of clover common to 
the South and of spontaneous growth. This in the 
warm months formed an exceedingly beautiful carpet, 
but it had now lost its rich emerald hue and had 
faded to a dull brown. A few summer-houses dot- 
ted the lawn hither and thither, but they were de- 
caying and slowly crumbling away. No trailing 
vines of honeysuckle, with graceful tendrils and 
fragrant blossoms, had ever entwined themselves 
around the lattice-work of these arbors; no golden 
jessamine exhaled delicious perfumes upon the even- 
ing air and sent zephyrs, ladened with its balmy 
odors, to kiss the sunny curls of some enchanting 
maiden; no scarlet woodbine, glowing like ruddy 
fires, ever encircled those ruined frames. There 
was nothing but ivy; and ivy, though only a vine, 
has as solemn and funereal an appearance as the 
grim cypress of the swamps or melancholy yew of 
the churchyard. In a remote corner of the extensive 


24 


GENEVIEVE 


inclosure was a miniature lake, fringed with weep- 
ing-willows, whose dim shadows were reflected from 
the transparent water beneath. No tiny sail had 
ever floated upon the tranquil bosom of this lake; 
there was nothing but shadows dim and dark, — 
shadows of clouds and shadows of trees. Occasion- 
ally a human shadow was reflected there, but the 
visits of the substance of that shadow were “like 
angels’ visits, few and far between.” Opposite this, 
at the other end of the inclosure, was a fountain in 
the shape of a beautiful ocean-nymph, pouring water 
from a large pitcher into a marble basin beneath. 
The crystal drops as they splashed and showered 
never scintillated, for the sun ever failed to shine 
upon that spot on account of the dense foliage 
around, which concealed the nymph as effectually as 
if she had been incarcerated within the walls of a 
dungeon. 

The appearance of the mansion was more melan- 
choly than criminal. A broad flight of stone steps 
ascended to the middle door, — for piazza, or por- 
tico, there was none, — over which arched a beauti- 
ful crescent window of stained glass. Upon each 
side of the steps crouched an enormous lion, placed 
there in kind remembrance of the British Lion, which 
we all know to be the emblem of British Nationality; 
we have both heard his growls and felt his paws. 
These were carved out of bronze and were of for- 
bidding aspect. If those that guarded the Palace 
of the Beautiful were as ferocious in appearance, 
we do not blame Christian for being taken aback. 

The interior of the mansion was elegant beyond 
description. There were three stories, each con- 
taining six spacious and magnificently furnished 


VIVIAN BERTRAM 


25 


chambers, though the furniture was of an antique 
style. Broad halls traversed the building from north 
to south in every story, and a grand spiral staircase 
wound its way from the first to the third floor. 
There were also two rooms, though small ones, in 
each of the towers, — East and West, as they were 
called. 

Within the dimly lighted library by a few dying 
embers sat the mother and son. The lady was tall 
and stately, but her form had lost the exquisite pro- 
portions that it had possessed in youth. Her spirits 
were no longer buoyant, her step no longer elastic. 
Her once beautiful blue eyes were faded and sunken; 
her cheeks were thin and hollow. Her hair was 
white; like that of the unfortunate Queen of Louis 
the Sixteenth, it had bleached in a single night, — a 
night of crime and horror. But Mrs. Bertram still 
retained many traces of her former beauty. 

And Vivian Bertram, the lord of the manor, the 
hero of our romance, — how shall we describe him? 
Reader, have you ever read Lord Byron’s “Cor- 
sair”? If so, then you no doubt have a picture of 
Conrad suspended upon the wall of your memory; 
brush away the cobwebs that obscure it, examine it 
carefully and see if it is not a good representation 
of Vivian Bertram. (It has been some time since I 
read the “Corsair,” and I forget now whether the 
eyes of Conrad were blue or black, but I think they 
were black and that Medora’s were blue. As a 
matter of course, they were obliged to present a 
contrast to each other. One never fancies one’s 
self and would scarcely marry one who bore him, — 
or her, as the case may be, — a resemblance.) The 
man was tall, though scarcely slender, and as stately 


2 6 


GENEVIEVE 


and graceful as the Apollo Belvidere. Damp, wav- 
ing masses of hair, as black as the raven’s plumage, 
were thrown carelessly back from a high, intellectual 
forehead. His complexion was a dark olive; his 
eyes were black, — not a lustreless, coal black, but 
bright and piercing and flashing like the eagle’s; his 
nose was a fine Roman of which even Anthony 
might have been proud; his mouth was bow-shaped; 
his lips were as red as a woman’s; his teeth were 
white and gleamed through the glossy blackness of 
a thick, curling silken moustache. A heavy, well- 
trimmed black beard concealed his chin, but we dare 
affirm that it was handsome, for it would be unbe- 
coming in the hero of a romance to have an imper- 
fect feature. 

The son had been reading aloud to the mother, 
but had closed his book and was sitting in moody 
silence, apparently wrapt in meditation. Suddenly 
the clanging of the great gate in the wall smote upon 
the ears of the pair. Mrs. Bertram arose and ap- 
proached the window and in the deepening twilight 
beheld a carriage rolling slowly up one of the semi- 
circular walks to the door of the mansion. 

“Miss De Vere has arrived,” she said, in answer 
to her son’s glance of inquiry. 

Just at that moment the door opened and a neat, 
elderly colored woman, with a lofty white turban 
upon her head, entered and announced the arrival of 
the carriage. 

“Show Miss De Vere to her apartment, Cla- 
rinda,” said the lady resuming her seat, “and inform 
her that I will see her at supper.” 

The woman bowed respectfully and withdrew. 
Genevieve had alighted and was standing in the hall. 


VIVIAN BERTRAM 


27 


Clarinda, addressing her politely, offered to conduct 
her to her apartment. The girl ascended the broad, 
carpeted steps, preceded by the old negress. The 
hall above was shrouded in Cimmerian gloom, save 
where the feeble rays of the lamp carried by the 
woman penetrated into the darkness. Genevieve was 
ushered into a spacious chamber, and Clarinda re- 
tired, closing the door behind her. An utter sense 
of loneliness crept over the orphan, — a vague, in- 
definable dread. The house was dark and chilly; the 
room was full of flickering shadows; they lurked in 
the corners, and the girl, timid and nervous, half- 
expected to see ghastly spectres confront her on 
every side. But knowing that she was obliged to 
appear at the supper table and being eager to please, 
she banished her superstition by a mighty effort and 
commenced her preparations. She bathed her face 
and hands, smoothed out the rumpled folds of her 
dress, adjusted her collar, combed and recurled her 
short, thick, clustering ringlets; then, her task being 
over, she stood before the mirror, with her elbow 
resting upon the marble surface of the bureau, and 
awaited a summons to supper. 

And while Genevieve is contemplating herself, 
though not conscious that she is doing so, let us 
take a retrospective view of her stage-coach journey 
from the little village of Spring Vale to the equally 
small village of Glenville. When she entered the 
coach at the door of the inn she found that she was 
not to be the only passenger. A lady, closely veiled, 
occupied one of the back seats. The moment Gene- 
vieve beheld this motionless figure a feeling of appre- 
hension crept over her; she had an instinctive dread 
of disguises, and this woman seemed to be in dis- 


28 


GENEVIEVE 


guise. For many moments the girl could not remove 
her eyes from the concealed face; they seemed riv- 
eted there as by a sort of fascination; but, fearing 
that the stranger might suppose her to be actuated 
by a vulgar curiosity, she unclosed a book of Camp- 
bell's poems that lay upon her lap, and forced her- 
self to read. For full two hours an unbroken si- 
lence reigned in the coach, but at last the lady, hav- 
ing scanned the orphan closely through her veil, and 
not fearing recognition from her, suddenly tossed 
it back and said : 

“The weather is quite gloomy.” 

Genevieve raised her brown eyes in surprise and 
replied: 

“Yes, madam, the clouds are lowering, and I think 
we will have rain.” 

She beheld a woman about twenty-five years old 
and singularly beautiful. She was evidently tall, 
with a Juno-like figure. She had an olive complex- 
ion, tinged with a roseate hue; black eyes, fierce and 
restless; an aquiline nose; a small mouth; beautiful 
white teeth, and lips as red as carmine. Her hair, 
blue-black and as smooth as satin, was plaited be- 
hind and arranged in an elliptical knot upon the 
back of her head, while the fronts were braided in 
braids as broad as the hand and twined around the 
knot. Her voice had a peculiar metallic ring and 
grated unpleasantly upon the tympanum. Genevieve 
felt as if by intuition that this woman only lacked the 
opportunity to become as wicked as a Lucretia 
Borgia. 

“I have read,” she said to herself, “of a Russian 
princess who was fearfully beautiful; this woman’s 
beauty must resemble her. She has the beauty of a 


VIVIAN BERTRAM 29 

fiend of darkness, not of an angel of light.” After 
a pause the lady said : 

“Permit me to inquire your destination and par- 
don me if I am curious.” 

Genevieve, as open as the day, answered unhesi- 
tatingly, “I am going to Glenville, madam.” 

“You do not stop at Monterosa, then?” 

“No, madam.” 

“Have you any acquaintances at Glenville?” 

“None whatever.” 

“May I inquire then why you go thither?” 

Genevieve, becoming weary of being catechised, 
and not relishing the eager, searching gaze of the 
stranger, replied coldly : 

“I can give you my history in a nutshell, madam. 
I am an orphan and penniless. I am en route for the 
residence of Mrs. Bianca Bertram. I am to be the 
companion of a young lady whom I have never seen, 
and whose name I do not even know.” 

At the mention of the name of Bertram the crim- 
son tide rushed to the stranger’s brow, a lurid light 
blazed in her haughty black eyes, she gnawed her 
nether lip in an uncontrollable emotion, and for a 
moment gazed upon the girl as if she would hurl 
her from the coach. Her slender fingers clutched 
the tassels of her cloak nervously, but controlling 
herself by a mighty effort, she dropped her veil and 
relapsed into a profound silence. Genevieve sat for 
a moment petrified, her cheek blanched to the hue of 
the white rose, her brown eyes dilated with wonder; 
but recollecting herself, she forced an unnatural 
calmness and resumed her reading. 

About noon the stage halted at a small wayside 
tavern surrounded by a few scattering houses. This 


30 


GENEVIEVE 


place was situated upon an eminence which in sum- 
mer was covered with thousands of beautiful and 
fragrant wild roses, — hence its name, Monterosa. 
Here the travelers alighted and refreshed them- 
selves. Fresh horses were procured, and immedi- 
ately after dinner they resumed their journey, which 
was performed in comparative silence. About four 
o’clock the lady drew the check-rein, the coach 
stopped and the driver dismounted. The lady arose, 
grasped Genevieve’s arm, shook her rudely, and in 
a voice of concentrated passion said: 

“Girl, you are very beautiful. Dare to thwart my 
plans or to frustrate my wishes, and you shall die, if 
1 have to kill you with these hands.” 

As she spoke she ceased her vise-like grip upon 
the girl’s arm, and held up her slender hands for a 
moment; then springing from the coach she hastily 
settled her bill with the driver, and plunging into a 
by-path that diverged from the main road, dis- 
appeared into the rapidly increasing gloom. Gene- 
vieve, as soon as she somewhat recovered her com- 
posure, inquired: 

u Is there a house in this neighborhood?” 

u No, marm,” answered the driver, who had 
gazed at the receding figure in open-mouthed won- 
der, “there bean’t none nigher than Glenville, and it 
will take us an hour’s hard ride to reach thar. God 
only knows whar the woman be gwine, unless, mav- 
hap, she knows herself.” 

“She seems to be a maniac.” 

“Hardly, marm; she must be well acquainted here- 
abouts; she knowed ’zackly whar the path took off.” 

“Did you ever see her before to-day?” 

“No, marm; she got out of the Berkely coach and 


VIVIAN BERTRAM 31 

into mine. I’m a new man on this road; ha’n’t been 
drivin’ more ’an a month.” 

The man stood for a few moments longer; then 
he resumed his seat and drove on to Glenville, which 
was reached in an hour, according to his prediction. 
Here Genevieve found a carriage from the Vale of 
Gloom awaiting to convey her thither. After she 
had entered and taken her seat and the sable coach- 
man had mounted to his the stage-driver stepped to 
the window and, raising his hat, said with an awk- 
ward but respectful manner and in a low voice : 

“You bean’t gwine to Castle Gloom, miss?” 

“To Castle Gloom?” repeated Genevieve, “What 
do you mean, my good man?” 

“Why the place where the Bertrams live be called 
Castle Gloom, and a glum place it be, and no fit 
place for a young gal like you. The valley too be 
called the Vale of Gloom, and folks do say that the 
house and the valley both be haunted by the ghost 
of a white woman. The Bertram niggers tells awful 
tales. If I had know’d you was gwine thar I would 
ha’ told you afore.” 

Just then the driver cracked his whip and the 
carriage rolled away in the gathering gloom before 
Genevieve had even had time to thank her humble 
friend. Who shall describe that lonely ride through 
the dark woods and the dim valley peopled with 
shadows? It would take a pen mightier than mine, 
wielded by a more powerful hand, to portray the 
feelings of the orphan, her hopes and her fears, her 
tears and her sighs and her prayers. 

But to return to the thread of our narrative. We 
left Genevieve contemplating her image in the mir- 
ror, though she was scarcely aware that she was 


30 


GENEVIEVE 


place was situated upon an eminence which in sum- 
mer was covered with thousands of beautiful and 
fragrant wild roses, — hence its name, Monterosa. 
Here the travelers alighted and refreshed them- 
selves. Fresh horses were procured, and immedi- 
ately after dinner they resumed their journey, which 
was performed in comparative silence. About four 
o’clock the lady drew the check-rein, the coach 
stopped and the driver dismounted. The lady arose, 
grasped Genevieve’s arm, shook her rudely, and in 
a voice of concentrated passion said: 

“Girl, you are very beautiful. Dare to thwart my 
plans or to frustrate my wishes, and you shall die, if 
I have to kill you with these hands.” 

As she spoke she ceased her vise-like grip upon 
the girl’s arm, and held up her slender hands for a 
moment; then springing from the coach she hastily 
settled her bill with the driver, and plunging into a 
by-path that diverged from the main road, dis- 
appeared into the rapidly increasing gloom. Gene- 
vieve, as soon as she somewhat recovered her com- 
posure, inquired: 

“Is there a house in this neighborhood?” 

“No, marm,” answered the driver, who had 
gazed at the receding figure in open-mouthed won- 
der, “there bean’t none nigher than Glenville, and it 
will take us an hour’s hard ride to reach thar. God 
only knows whar the woman be gwine, unless, mav- 
hap, she knows herself.” 

“She seems to be a maniac.” 

“Hardly, marm; she must be well acquainted here- 
abouts; she knowed ’zaekly whar the path took off.” 

“Did you ever see her before to-day?” 

“No, marm; she got out of the Berkely coach and 


VIVIAN BERTRAM 31 

into mine. I’m a new man on this road; ha’n’t been 
drivin’ more ’an a month.” 

The man stood for a few moments longer; then 
he resumed his seat and drove on to Glenville, which 
was reached in an hour, according to his prediction. 
Here Genevieve found a carriage from the Vale of 
Gloom awaiting to convey her thither. After she 
had entered and taken her seat and the sable coach- 
man had mounted to his the stage-driver stepped to 
the window and, raising his hat, said with an awk- 
ward but respectful manner and in a low voice : 

“You bean’t gwine to Castle Gloom, miss?” 

“To Castle Gloom?” repeated Genevieve, “What 
do you mean, my good man?” 

“Why the place where the Bertrams live be called 
Castle Gloom, and a glum place it be, and no fit 
place for a young gal like you. The valley too be 
called the Vale of Gloom, and folks do say that the 
house and the valley both be haunted by the ghost 
of a white woman. The Bertram niggers tells awful 
tales. If I had know’d you was gwine thar I would 
ha’ told you afore.” 

Just then the driver cracked his whip and the 
carriage rolled away in the gathering gloom before 
Genevieve had even had time to thank her humble 
friend. Who shall describe that lonely ride through 
the dark woods and the dim valley peopled with 
shadows? It would take a pen mightier than mine, 
wielded by a more powerful hand, to portray the 
feelings of the orphan, her hopes and her fears, her 
tears and her sighs and her prayers. 

But to return to the thread of our narrative. We 
left Genevieve contemplating her image in the mir- 
ror, though she was scarcely aware that she was 


32 


GENEVIEVE 


doing so. All at once the girl became conscious 
that she was not alone in the room — that there was 
another presence, dread and awful. At the same 
time another face became reflected in the mirror, 
white and ghastly, with wide-open, staring eyes and 
long flowing locks, white as snow. Almost the same 
instant the light was extinguished, and the girl was 
left in total darkness with no companion but that 
thing of horror, — that weird and awful creature 
clad in the habiliments of the grave. 


CHAPTER III 

THE ALARM 

I feel mv sinews slacken’d with fright, 

And a cold sweat thrills down all o’er my limbs, 

As if I were dissolving into water. 

— Dryden’s Tempest. 

So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, 

The overflowings of an innocent heart. 

— Rogers * Italy. 

Just at this critical and agonized moment foot- 
steps resounded in the hall without, the door opened 
softly and Clarinda, still bearing a light, entered 
and summoned Genevieve to supper. The girl, calm- 
ing the tumultuous beatings of her heart by an al- 
most superhuman effort, glanced around the room, 
but nothing of a supernatural character was visible. 
She approached the old woman and laying her soft 
white hand upon the horny one that grasped the 
door-knob, said, in a gasping voice: 

u My good mammy, I am lonely and desolate and 
need sympathy. I have been terribly frightened; 
there has been some one in the room, — a white 
woman. I saw her face in the mirror, and she blew 
out the candle that you left burning on the bureau.” 

The old negress gazed at the girl earnestly, and as 
33 


34 


GENEVIEVE 


she gazed a far-away look came into her eyes; she 
seemed as if she were trying to remember something 
that was forgotten, to find something that was lost. 
But Genevieve’s pallid face and trembling form re- 
called her wandering thoughts. She said in kindly 
accents : 

“My dear young missus, I don’t t’ink dere is any- 
t’ing in dis house to hurt a critter like you; you’s 
good and purty ’nuf, to keep de g’os’es away. P’raps 
’twus yer own white face you seed in de glass, and 
mebbe de wind blow’d out de light jes’ as I open’d de 
door. But if it’ll please you, I’ll look about.” 

With this the old woman deposited the lamp upon 
a chair, and made a careful examination of the 
room, but neither ghost nor goblin was to be found. 

“Is you satisfied, honey?” asked the good crea- 
ture. 

“I see that there is no one in the room now,” 
murmured Genevieve, “but I could not surely have 
fancied anything so awful ; it must, — it must have 
been a reality.” 

Clarinda picked up her lamp and glided out into 
the hall and Genevieve followed her. The old 
woman muttered to herself: 

“She must ’a’ mistook. It must ’a’ been her own 
white face she seed in de glass, an’ de wind must ’a’ 
blow’d out de candle. I nebber seed no g’os’es in dis 
house, do’ dem quarter niggers do swar dey be here. 
Leastways I won’t say nuffin to de missus ’bout it; 
she hab trouble ’nuf dout dat.” 

The descent of the stairs having been accom- 
plished, the old creature conducted the orphan 
through an open door into a large dining-room, 
where a fire was smouldering upon the hearth. 


THE ALARM 


35 


Genevieve, summoning all her courage to her aid, 
advanced with the air of a young queen to greet the 
lady of the mansion, who arose and stepped for- 
ward to meet her, saying in an interrogative voice : 

“Miss De Vere, I presume?” 

“Yes, madam,” replied the orphan, “and I sup- 
pose I have the honor of addressing Mrs. Ber- 
tram?” 

Just then the strong rays of the lamp that sat 
upon the mantel fell upon the girl’s beautiful face, 
which shone out like a star from its framework of 
golden brown ringlets, and at the same instant Mrs. 
Bertram uttered an exclamation, and clasping her 
hands upon her heart, sank back pale and agitated 
into her chair. Her son, upon whom this scene was 
not lost, advanced to her side and asked affection- 
ately : 

“My dear mother, are you ill? Had you not bet- 
ter be conveyed to your apartment?” 

“No,” said Mrs. Bertram, recovering herself and 
arising, “it was only a passing spasm; I am better 
now.” Then recollecting that she had not performed 
the ceremony of introduction between the two who 
stood near her, she continued, “My son, allow me 
to introduce you to Miss De Vere, — Miss De Vere, 
my son, Mr. Bertram.” 

The lady, feeling that some explanation of her 
sudden emotion was necessary, said, after a pause: 
“Miss De Vere’s face reminded me vividly of two 
faces that I knew years ago.” 

The two who had been introduced bowed courte- 
ously, then the orphan raised her eyes and stood 
face to face with her destiny. The repast was eaten 
almost in total silence and with little appetite, though 


GENEVIEVE 


36 

it was dainty enough to please an epicure. Hot rolls, 
light waffles, hominy, chipped beef, sliced cold ham, 
coffee and tea constituted the substantials, while 
there was an abundance of delicious jellies, preserves 
and tea-cakes. After the meal was completed, Mrs. 
Bertram said: 

“Miss De Vere, my house is open to you. You 
are at liberty to spend your evenings in the library 
where there is plenty of reading matter, in the par- 
lor where there are musical instruments, or in the sit- 
ting-room where I usually do my sewing and knit- 
ting.” 

Genevieve thanked the lady, but begged permis- 
sion to return to her own room as she was weary 
with travel and would be glad to rest. Clarinda 
accordingly conducted her upstairs and there, to 
gratify the girl, made a thorough investigation of 
the apartment and of a small closet adjoining it, 
which had escaped the observation of Genevieve, 
and the memory of the old woman in the previous 
search. Our heroine was better satisfied; she now 
believed firmly that there had been some one in 
the room, that that person had taken refuge in the 
closet when Clarinda’s steps were heard approach- 
ing, and that after their departure she had made 
her escape by the door. 

“Good night, young missus,” said the old slave, 
“to-morrow I’ll git missus to have a young gal 
fetched from the quarters to sleep on de floor in de 
room wid you.” 

Genevieve thanked her, and after she had gone 
closed and locked the door securely, and soon re- 
tired to rest. 

Until late in the dark November night Vivian 


THE ALARM 


37 


Bertram sat up in the library below, reading at first, 
but by and by he laid aside his book and the angel 
of thought stepped down into his heart and dis- 
turbed its waters as the angel of God disturbed the 
waters of the Pool of Bethesda. He unlocked the 
dim silent chambers of memory and reviewed the 
scenes of his past life, — that past over which a 
shadow ever hung. As picture after picture was 
recalled, — some vivid and startling, others faded 
and obscure, — he bowed his head upon the table 
beside him; a low moan escaped his lips, and he 
murmured to himself : 

u Alas! Is there no oblivion? Will Lethe’s 
waves never obliterate these gloomy pictures of by- 
gone days? Is my life to be as the lonely pine, 
blasted by the lightning’s scorching, withering 
power, around which no lovely vine shall ever cling 
to conceal its deformities, and bud and blossom and 
bring forth fruit? Must it be a solitary pilgrimage 
through a wilderness world, with no waters of 
Horeb to gush forth and cheer my fainting spirit? 
Will no soft hand ever rest in mine? — no gentle 
voice speed me on, thereby giving me a double in- 
centive to love God and man, to perform my mis- 
sion upon earth and to die at my post when the 
messenger comes?” 

He raised his eyes heavenward as he spoke, 
and when he had finished he arose to retire. Out in 
the dark night upon the shadowy veranda adjoin- 
ing the library lurked a woman, draped in black and 
motionless as the dead, her basilisk eyes watching 
every motion of the man within through the open 
blinds. Avaunt, spirit of the night! Begone to 
some howling wilderness where lions roam about 


38 


GENEVIEVE 


seeking whom they may devour and making the 
earth tremble with their mighty roarings. Make 
thy abode among leaping panthers and coiling ser- 
pents, and disturb not the roof beneath which sweet 
innocence reposes. Genevieve slept, but how long 
she knew not. She was awakened by a shriek so 
long, so loud, and so unearthly that it curdled the 
blood in her veins, and for a moment she seemed 
transformed to stone, or chained to her bed by a 
terrible nightmare. She lay thus for many moments, 
then, hearing footsteps ascending the stairs and sup- 
posing them to be Clarinda’s, she sprang out of 
bed, and hastily throwing her dressing-robe around 
her, stepped out into the hall. There she con- 
fronted, not old Clarinda, but Vivian Bertram. 

“Oh, sir!” she cried, “that shriek, so wild,- — so 
startling, — what was it? Is any one in distress?” 

“Retire to your apartment, Miss De Vere,” said 
Mr. Bertram, sternly. “I dare swear there is noth- 
ing in this house that would harm an innocent young 
maiden. I scarcely thought this evening that my 
mother had taken a silly superstitious girl into her 
house, one to be frightened at every owl’s screech 
or nighthawk’s scream.” 

“But it was no owl’s screech, nor nighthawk’s 
scream, Mr. Bertram; it was a human voice, wild, 
unearthly. It seemed to proceed from some of the 
upper chambers, and it aroused me from a deep 
sleep, congealing my blood and filling my soul with 
horror.” 

Her faltering voice and visible shudderings had 
their effect upon Mr. Bertram. He began to real- 
ize how frightened she was, how she panted like a 
timid gazelle pursued by unrelenting hunters. The 


THE ALARM 


39 


stern expression vanished from his mouth and into 
his eyes there crept a velvety look. He said gently, 
for Vivian Bertram was ever kind and courteous to 
women, though he had suffered much at the hands of 
one woman : 

“Calm yourself, Miss De Vere, and seek your 
couch again. Do not be alarmed even if you 
should fancy that you hear a repetition of this 
midnight cry. I will constitute myself your guar- 
dian while you remain under this roof, and I prom- 
ise you that neither ghost nor devil shall assail you.” 

Genevieve raised her lustrous brown eyes to his 
face; her glance penetrated to his heart and melted 
the icicles that had been accumulating there for so 
many years. It was so full of trust, — trust in him, 
a weak mortal, whose arm was only powerful to 
contend with foes as open as the day, — trust in him 
who dreamed not that a pair of eyes were glaring 
down upon him and the maiden from the hall 
above, dreamed not that a human figure crouched 
in the veranda below, ready to do deadly harm to 
the sweet girl who had kept herself unspotted from 
the world. The velvety expression in Bertram’s 
eyes deepened to a strange, wild tenderness before 
which Genevieve’s suddenly drooped, while the 
scarlet blood mantled her brow, her cheek and her 
neck. She stood thus for a few moments with 
“downcast eyes and modest grace,” then, all at 
once remembering that she was en deshabille, she 
retired within her room and closed the door. 

Vivian Bertram slowly walked down the great 
hall and descended the stairs, thinking to himself: 

“How meek and holy she looked, how like some 
fair enshrined saint, lovelier than Jacob’s Rachel or 


40 


GENEVIEVE 


than Mary of Bethany, — lovelier than any woman 
that ever existed, except perhaps our first mother, 
when her dwelling-place was Eden in its primeval 
beauty, or Mary, the beautiful Madonna, the vir- 
gin mother of Christ.” 

At the foot of the stairs he encountered his 
mother, pale and anxious, clad in her nightrobes, 
with a black shawl thrown around her shoulders. 
She raised an inquiring glance to his face, but did 
not speak. He said kindly: 

‘‘Return to your room, dear mother, and en- 
deavor to sleep. I found Miss De Vere badly 
frightened, as I feared she would be, but I think 
I have reassured her, and she has retired to her 
chamber.” 

Bending his proud head he imprinted a kiss upon 
his mother’s wan cheek and then proceeded to the 
library where he closed the blinds, his hand brush- 
ing against the concealed figure as he did so. He 
then retired to rest. 

The next morning Genevieve appeared at the 
breakfast table, pale but tranquil. She was greeted 
cordially by the lady of the house, courteously by 
Mr. Bertram. A slight constraint rested upon all 
three, for they remembered the alarm of the previ- 
ous night and that there had been no explanation 
of it. After breakfast Mrs. Bertram and our hero- 
ine adjourned to the sitting-room, where the morn- 
ing was spent. Mrs. Bertram informed Genevieve 
that she expected her niece in the course of a few 
days. She related also a portion of her family his- 
tory, — namely, that she was the daughter of an 
English gentleman of fortune, who, together with 
his wife, had long slept the dreamless sleep; that 


THE ALARM 


4i 

she had once been blessed with two brothers; that 
one was a good deal older than herself, the other 
much younger; that they were now both deceased, 
and Viola Clayborne, her niece, was the daughter of 
the younger, and that she, with a considerable for- 
tune, had been intrusted to her care. 

During the morning Mr. Bertram came into the 
sitting-room, and while apparently engaged in an 
earnest conservation with his mother he furtively 
watched the girl whose beauty and purity of counte- 
nance had already made a lasting impression upon 
his heart. Occasionally he addressed a remark to 
her, which was answered with much grace and dig- 
nity. Mr. Bertram was a splendidly educated gen- 
tleman, a profound thinker, and he was gifted with 
the most entertaining conversational powers. Gene- 
vieve was alike accomplished and possessed of a fine 
flow of language. It is no wonder then that these 
two became speedily and powerfully interested in 
each other. Our heroine was looking unusually well 
this sombre November morning, her elegant form 
being rendered more conspicuous by her closely fit- 
ting dress, her complexion, which was as white as 
Carrara marble, presented a beautiful and striking 
contrast to her mourning robes, and her eyes shone 
with a lustre as resplendent as that of the evening 
star. 

The week passed uneventfully away. Genevieve 
experienced no more alarms, — beheld no more ap- 
paritions. Old Clarinda, true to her promise, had 
prevailed upon her mistress to permit a girl from 
the quarter to sleep in Genevieve’s room on the 
floor; so Pinky, a negro as black as ebony, was duly 
installed as maid. 


42 


GENEVIEVE 


On the sixth day after her arrival the carriage 
was again ordered to Glenville and returned, bring- 
ing Viola Clayborne, a laughing, winsome girl of 
about Genevieve’s age and height. If the latter 
was as “beautiful as a poem,” the former was as 
“pretty as a madrigal.” Her Parian-like complexion ; 
her eyes, “deeply, darkly, beautifully blue”; her 
nose, which was slightly retrousse; her cheeks, upon 
which twin blush roses bloomed, and her small 
mouth, with its pouting red lips, were objects of 
great beauty. Her long golden curls fell like a 
shining veil over her neck and shoulders. Her 
figure was arrowy and well proportioned, and her 
face, though not as intellectual as Genevieve’s, was 
expressive of much thought and feeling. 

The girls were mutually well pleased with each 
other, judging from the frequent glances of admira- 
tion that were exchanged between them, — glances 
that were occasionally intercepted by Mrs. Bertram, 
or her son. After Genevieve had retired from the 
table Viola, who still lingered near her aunt, ex- 
claimed : 

“Oh, what a charming creature ! She is so wil- 
lowy and graceful, as beautiful as a poet’s dream of 
heaven, or better still, an angel’s smile. I wonder 
that my cousin Vivian has not been ensnared in her 
net.” 

Mrs. Bertram looked slightly annoyed. The 
Lara-like expression vanished from Mr. Bertram’s 
face, a pleasant smile hovered about his mouth, and 
he said softly : 

“Miss De Vere is indeed enchanting; she is my 
realization of all a woman should be, — beautiful, 
amiable, polished, and intellectual. What more 


THE ALARM 43 

could be desired? She has already attained per- 
fection. ” 

“You forget, my son,” said his mother, “that 
Miss De Vere is without name or fortune and that 
she is here as a companion to my niece. I should 
dislike above all things for my son to be entrapped 
into a marriage with a dependent upon my bounty.” 

(The truth was Mrs. Bertram had perceived her 
son’s increasing predilection for the orphan and op- 
posed it, her heart being resolved upon a union be- 
tween the cousins.) 

Mr. Bertram frowned and said haughtily: 

“If riches constitute independence ; if beauty, worth 
and education are of no importance when weighed in 
the balance with them, then, indeed, is Miss De 
Vere poor. But I tell you candidly, my mother, 
that does not lower her in my estimation. I have 
always felt the utmost contempt for those who sacri- 
fice every nobler impulse to bow at the shrine of 
Mammon. But a truce to this nonsense,” he added, 
arising from the table and sauntering with Viola 
into the hall. 

Genevieve stood at the remote end, her elegant 
form clearly outlined against the great door by 
the light of the chandelier which illuminated the 
hall with great brilliancy in honor of the arrival of 
the English heiress. 

Mr. Bertram approached and said in a most win- 
ning voice: 

“Will Miss De Vere favor us with some of her 
rare music from the old masters, which has for the 
last week beguiled many of the otherwise tedious 
hours that I have spent in the contiguous apart- 
ment.” 


44 


GENEVIEVE 


Genevieve blushed deeply; had the Fountain of 
Hippocrene suddenly sprung forth at her feet, she 
could not have been more amazed than she was to 
discover that this haughty, dark-browed man, so 
full of pride and power, had taken an interest in 
her music and acknowledged its potent influence. 

She bowed an acquiescence and without any af- 
fectation, though with real modesty, led the way to 
the parlor, where she seated herself at the harpsi- 
chord and sang and played some exquisite German 
and Italian melodies. 


CHAPTER IV 

THE SECRET FOE 

I love thee and I feel 
That on the fountain of my heart a seal 
Is set to keep its waters pure and bright 
For thee. 

— Shelley. 

I had much rather see 
A crested dragon, or a basilisk; 

Both are less poison to my eyes and nature. 

— Dryden’s “Don Sebastian 

Genevieve’s music ravished the ears of her lis- 
teners, entranced their hearts, and elicited their 
most lavish encomiums. Her voice was a pure con- 
tralto, peculiarly sweet and flute-like. Its spell 
upon Mr. Bertram was magical and irresistible; he 
murmured to himself: 

“’Tis like the chime of silver bells, the plashing 
of water in a marble urn, the warbling of the sweet- 
voiced nightingale, or the melting music of the an- 
gelic choristers around the throne.” 

While these thoughts and emotions were surging 
in his bosom Genevieve raised her starry eyes to 
his face, their glances met; his revealed suddenly 
awakened love, strong and impassioned, — love unto 
45 


46 


GENEVIEVE 


death, beyond death, beyond the grave, — love for- 
ever and ever. The maiden read his heart; she 
could not disguise the fact; her white lids drooped 
over her brown eyes, veiling their splendor, and for 
a moment her slender form trembled, as if in an 
“earthquake shock” or an “ocean storm.” She 
arose from the piano, and striving to conceal her 
embarrassment, entreated Miss Clayborne to take 
her place. Viola sat down and with much spirit 
and effect sang Burns’s “Highland Mary,” an old 
Scotch air of surpassing sweetness. Her face was 
all aglow with enthusiasm and Genevieve, uncon- 
scious of her own personal attractions, thought that 
she had never beheld a more bewitching creature. 

The next morning the two girls visited the pic- 
ture gallery and contemplated the portraits hanging 
there, many of them faded with age. There were 
women of beauty, both of ancient and modern times. 
There were Semiramis, the queen of Assyria, and 
Cleopatra, the queen of Egypt, the glorious sorcer- 
ess of the Nile, who quaffed pearls from a gemmed 
goblet and triumphed over the hearts of some of 
earth’s mightiest warriors. Side by side hung Anne 
Boleyn, the unfortunate successor of the “spotless 
Aragonese infanta” in the affections of the perfidi- 
ous King Henry the Eighth of the House of Tudor, 
and Mary, of Scotland, the most beautiful, the most 
illustrious, and the most unfortunate of the unhappy 
race of Stuarts. Opposite each other were Marie 
Antoinette, Austria’s unhappy daughter and Gal- 
lia’s unhappy queen, and the Empress Josephine, 
whose throne was in the hearts of the French people. 
There also were Isabella of Spain, the patroness of 
Columbus, the discoverer of the New World; Eliza- 


THE SECRET FOE 


47 


beth, of England; Joan D’Arc; Charlotte Corday; 
Hannibal, the Carthaginian general; Napoleon, the 
Corsican hero; Gustavus Adolphus, the Swedish 
king, and Washington, the pure-souled patriot. Be- 
sides these there were family portraits, — the old 
revolutionary hero in the grand climacteric of his 
age and the zenith of his glory, when his brow was 
crowned with laurels and his praises were resound- 
ingthroughout the length and breadth of the land; his 
noble Saxon dame, their son; the present Mrs. Ber- 
tram, her son, and then a veiled picture. When this 
was reached the girls looked inquiringly at each 
other, and both answered by a negative shake of the 
head. Viola said: 

“My aunt had a daughter once. This may be her 
portrait, but why shroud it in black when these 
others,” and she waved her hand as she spoke, “are 
also dead but unveiled?” 

They pondered the question for many moments, 
but failing to arrive at any solution of the problem, 
returned to the sitting-room, where the morning was 
spent in embroidering and other womanly employ- 
ments. The afternoon was devoted to an examina- 
tion of the statues placed in niches in the walls of 
the lower hall. There were a magnificent Venus de 
Medici; a Flora, engarlanded with flowers; a 
Diana, equipped for the chase; a beautiful Cupid, 
with his quiver and arrows; a Ceres, with her torch, 
pursuing her search for Proserpine, whom Pluto 
had borne away to his dark abode. There was also 
a statue of Niobe, dissolved in tears, and on each 
side of the staircase was an angel, with expanded 
wings, pluming itself for an empyrean flight and 
bearing in its right hand a marble lamp and in its 


48 


GENEVIEVE 


left a porcelain vase full of the rarest flowers. 
These were emblematic of the “light of the world” 
and of the heavenly flowers which are unfading and 
whose aroma, — unlike that of the frail, perishing 
blossoms of mortality, — is undying. Opposite the 
statue of the god of Love was a delicate basket 
made of rice, in imitation of a bird’s nest. It was 
placed upon a bracket. Within, or rather upon the 
nest, reclined a beautiful white dove with folded 
wings, its heart transfixed by an arrow from the 
relentless hand of Cupid. This was typical of the 
dove of peace, which is supposed to make her bower 
in every maiden’s heart, and to remain there until 
expelled to make way for the grand passion } or the 
belle passion, whichever it may be termed. 

Three weeks glided away serenely within doors, 
but without the weather was so inclement as to pre- 
clude all idea of rambles and outdoor exercise. 
Genevieve and Viola, when they thought themselves 
unobserved stole out into the yard, with their feet 
encased in indiarubber shoes and their forms en- 
veloped in waterproof cloaks, but old Clarinda, to 
whom Viola laughingly gave the name of Cerberus, 
was always on the watch, and never failed to inform 
upon the fair culprits. If Mrs. Bertram neglected 
to administer a gentle reprimand then did Clarinda 
herself take them in hand and give them a sound 
scolding. On one occasion she said : 

“God bless yer souls, you’ll cotch a cole an’ all 
the docterin’ we den kin do won’t do you no good if 
you hab neumony. P’raps you’ll die, an’ den whar’ll 
you go?” 

Viola, who had been accustomed to gayety, who 
had been plunged into a perfect vortex of pleasure 


THE SECRET FOE 


49 


during her life in London, who had been the cyno- 
sure of many admiring eyes and who had been flat- 
tered, courted and caressed by a number of satellites 
ever in attendance upon her, suffered greatly. She 
felt as if immured in a dreary prison and she con- 
fessed to Genevieve that the atmosphere of the 
house was depressing, that her spirits were no longer 
jubilant, that her frame was becoming enervated 
from lack of recreation. She compared herself to 
Marianne in the “Moated Grange,” and quoted a 
verse of Longfellow’s “Rainy Day”: 

“The day is cold and dark and dreary, 

It rains, and the wind is never weary; 

The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, 

But at every gust the dead leaves fall, 

And the day is dark and dreary” 

Genevieve, who pursued the “even tenor” of 
her way and whose spirits never arose to exuber- 
ance, replied by a quotation from the same poem : 


“Be still, sad heart, and cease repining^ 

Behind the clouds is the sun still shining, 

Thy fate is the common fate of all, 

Into each life some rain must fall, * 

Some days must be dark and dreary.” 

The girls were quite busy with some fancy articles 
that they intended as Christmas presents for Mrs. 
Bertram. Genevieve’s design was lovely; she had 
inserted a circular piece of mirror in a frame and 
had embroidered a patch of green around the edge 
resembling a grassy or mossy bank. Upon the 
bosom of the water, which was in reality glass, al- 
though it bore a striking likeness to a limpid pond. 


50 


GENEVIEVE 


sailed two large white swans, in imitation of those 
that rove southward in the fall when the roses of 
the north lie scattered and her lakes are frozen to 
make their dwelling-places in a land redolent with 
the odors of orange bowers and magnolia groves. 
These were also of her manufacture. Viola painted 
a country scene, — a cottage embowered in trees 
upon the banks of a majestic river; sportive children 
tossing pebbles into the bright translucent waves; 
light, fleecy clouds of the Cirrhus class floating at a 
great elevation above and feathery filaments of the 
Stratus order hovering like a veil over and around 
the gently flowing river. Viola, who thought “self 
praise no scandal,” eulogized her work, and declared 
that it and the warm friendship that was springing 
up in her heart for our heroine served to lighten her 
burden and to prevent her close confinement from 
becoming intolerable. The girls were becoming al- 
most inseparable; Viola was Genevieve’s shadow. 
Mr. Bertram jestingly compared them to Damon 
and Pythias, to Orestes and Pylades, and bade them 
beware of disagreements lest their love should turn 
to hatred and they should become as bitter enemies 
as Eteocles and Polynices, the flames of whose burn- 
ing bodies refused to commingle, so great was the 
animosity they cherished against each other. 

There is an end to all things and about the first 
week in December a line of light appeared along the 
darkened horizon, the fast-falling rain abated, the 
sun shone out, dispelling the gloom and irradiating 
the murky sky. In a day or two the clouds van- 
ished, save a few gossamer ones that floated about 
on the sea of ether above like rich argosies freighted 
with treasures, gliding on a summer sea during the 


THE SECRET FOE 


5i 


halcyon days, undisturbed by gales or tempests. 

Genevieve, although she was very fond of congen- 
ial society, sometimes considered solitude a luxury, 
in order that she might review the scenes of her past 
life and meditate upon its events. With this idea 
predominant in her mind she quietly left the house 
one afternoon when the sun was sinking behind the 
western hills like some mighty luminary dipped in a 
sea of sapphire. She directed her steps toward the 
lake vwhich lay in a distant and retired portion of 
the yard. In the centre of this lake a small irregular 
island had been formed by human ingenuity, and 
upon this island was perched a dismantled summer- 
house containing two rustic chairs. An arched bridge 
spanned the water on each side, connecting the is- 
land with the mainland. Genevieve slowly and care- 
fully traversed the bridge, which was in a ruinous 
condition, and seated herself in one of the dilapi- 
dated chairs. Scarcely had she done so when all 
hopes of a twilight reverie vanished like the “base- 
less fabric of a vision.” A shadow darkened the 
doorway opposite to that by which she had effected 
an entrance and Vivian Bertram stood before her. 

“Miss De Vere, — and alone !” he exclaimed de- 
lightedly, while his fine eyes beamed with pleasure. 
“I scarcely dared hope that the Fates would be so 
propitious to one so unworthy of any great blessing 
as myself.” 

“I do not understand, Mr. Bertram,” said Gene- 
vieve, arising and preparing to depart, but he seized 
her hands, and gently compelling her to resume her 
seat, placed himself beside her. 

“Are you then indeed so ignorant, Miss De Vere, 
so unsophisticated, so little versed in reading the 


52 


GENEVIEVE 


human countenance, that you have failed to discover 
that I cherish a secret, — one which I shall not reveal 
to you until I dare hope its disclosure may give you 
joy instead of awakening regret?” 

Genevieve blushed deeply, her eyes sought the 
ground and she replied: 

“I dare say we all have secrets, Mr. Bertram, 
but I am no Shakespeare, no wizard of human 
hearts. I confess that I have some little skill in di- 
vining characters by means of the face, which is 
doubtless a good index ; but then the face must either 
be expressive of much good or of much evil. I have 
met persons who appeared to be all that was noble 
and truthful, yet from whom I shrank instinctively; 
again I have met those who wore the garb of cold- 
ness and indifference and I have felt for them a 
friendship. I judged them not by appearances, for 
they are often deceitful, but by the glances of their 
eyes.” 

“Can you tell, then, when you have met a con- 
genial spirit, one whose nature could readily as- 
similate to yours?” 

“I cannot conjecture. I believe that there are 
heights and depths in the nature of every individual 
to which no other person can attain or descend; for 
instance, you remember that quotation ‘The heart 
knoweth its own bitterness and the stranger inter- 
meddleth not.’ Does not that prove that none can 
understand the depths of sorrow to which the human 
heart may sink? Is it not reasonable to suppose 
also that when the spirit is elated by joy it can soar 
to heights beyond the reach of even the most de- 
voted friend?” 

“I fear that Miss De Vere has not studied the 


THE SECRET FOE 


53 


human countenance to much purpose; she forgets 
that we are often compelled to wear a mask in 
order to conceal our real feelings from the unsym- 
pathizing world. But to be plain, — and I trust she 
will not think me egotistical, — what does Miss De 
Vere think of me?” 

Genevieve blushed rosily at this pointblank ques- 
tion, and at the eager look that accompanied it. She 
replied: 

“I have not made Mr. Bertram’s physiognomy 
my study.” 

Mr. Bertram laughed but looked disappointed. 

“You cannot determine, then, whether Ormuzd or 
Ahriman sways the sceptre before which I bend,” 
he said, “but will you promise in the future to make 
my countenance and my character objects of more 
interest to yourself?” 

The color deepened on the girl’s cheeks; she an- 
swered in a low, faltering voice : 

“If I am to class Mr. Bertram among my few 
friends, then, indeed, I shall take an interest in his 
welfare.” 

Mr. Bertram had bowed his proud head and lis- 
tened attentively. He now raised it, and taking her 
hand, which was instantly withdrawn, said : 

“I thank you, Miss De Vere. I trust that I shall 
prove my friendship to be unalterable whatever may 
betide, but I do not despair of being your tutor in 
experiencing a more powerful, a more blissful, emo- 
tion.” 

He paused and changed the subject out of regard 
for the trembling girl before him. 

“I would like to relate to you the history of my 
life, — its joys and sorrows, its hopes and fears. 


54 


GENEVIEVE 


Will you kindly listen now, or shall I postpone my 
recital to some more convenient time?” 

Genevieve arose and answered: 

“I am grateful that you should desire to repose 
confidence in me, but beg that you will withhold it 
to-night. It is getting late; Mrs. Bertram and Miss 
Clayborne will wonder at my absence. Had I not 
better return? And alone?” she added, for Mr. 
Bertram had arisen also. “I fear Mrs. Bertram will 
be displeased with me for — for ” 

Mr. Bertram laughed. 

“Monopolizing me, you would say. Have no fears 
on your account nor on mine. Return if you will, but 
I shall accompany you. There is nothing clandestine 
in my nature. If my mother should discover that 
I had had a stolen interview with Miss De Vere, 
Miss Clayborne or any other lady, her confidence in 
me would be destroyed.” 

“I entreat,” said Genevieve, “that you will not 
suppose for a moment that I consider this meeting 
in the light of an interview. I assumed that it was 
altogether accidental and I have no reason to doubt 
that my suppositions were not true.” 

“Miss De Vere has yet to learn that my actions 
are not controlled by chance. But, precede me across 
the bridge; it will scarcely sink under your light 
weight, — possibly it might under mine.” 

Genevieve pursued her way slowly and reached 
the bank. Mr. Bertram followed her, walked by her 
side across the yard and assisted her to ascend the 
steps. Happily the hall was deserted, and our hero- 
ine escaped to her chamber without observation or 
comment. 

On the third night after the summer-house scene 


THE SECRET FOE 


55 


Mrs. Bertram complained of a headache and re- 
tired to bed early. Genevieve, on her way from her 
room whither she had gone immediately after sup- 
per for a favorite book, looked into the parlor and 
seeing Viola at the piano practicing and Mr. Ber- 
tram reclining upon a sofa, passed on to the library 
and ensconced herself in a large arm-chair by an 
open window. The full-orbed winter moon poured 
a flood of argentine lustre into the room; the vines 
of ivy that wreathed the veranda made beautiful 
lattice work upon the carpet; the moonlight sheen 
lay like a silver veil upon the tranquil bosom of the 
lake, the waters of which could be seen glimmering 
in the distance. Genevieve felt soothed by the scene; 
it was so calm and peaceful. Her fancy unlocked its 
holiest cells, her heart revealed its most labyrinthian 
recesses; she mused of bygone years, of the dear 
father and mother who had journeyed through the 
dark “valley and shadow of death.” Tears welled 
up from her heart and chased one another down her 
cheeks. The door opened softly; Mr. Bertram en- 
tered, approached and seated himself near her. She 
raised her eyes. He saw the teardrops trembling 
there and repeated in low tones : 


“There is no cheek however bright its roses, 

But perished buds beneath its hues are hid ; 

No eye that in its dewy light reposes, 

But broken star-beams tremble ’neath its lid.” 

When he had finished, he asked tenderly while 
he imprisoned both her hands in his: 

“Genevieve, is it true that there is an inner and 
bitter anguish in your heart, — one to be forever con- 
cealed from your friends? Why do you seek soli- 


56 


GENEVIEVE 


tude? Is it to indulge in grief or are you inclined 
to be misanthropic and to shun the companionship 
of your fellow-creatures? If you have a sad se- 
cret will you not reveal it to me? I have promised to 
be your guardian, your friend. Will you not trust 
me?” 

Genevieve struggled to free her hands, but in 
vain; he detained them by a gentle but firm and un- 
yielding grasp. She answered: 

“I have a sorrow, Mr. Bertram, but it is not with- 
out hope. I grieve, not for my dear parents who 
have crossed the turbid waters of Jordan and now 
stand securely upon the glorified shore, but for my- 
self, their lonely and desolate orphan.” 

Mr. Bertram raised her white hands to his heart 
and pressed them there. Again Genevieve attempted 
their release, but was unsuccessful. Mr. Bertram 
asked: 

u Are you not a Christian, Genevieve? Do not 
the consolations of religion cheer you? Do not its 
effulgent beams banish the gloom from your soul 
and impart to you the hope of a blissful immortality 
where you shall all be reunited?” 

“Ah, yes,” she answered, while an ecstatic look 
dawned upon her beauteous face. “Sometimes my 
spirit seems as if about to rid itself of this frail 
earthly tabernacle and to wing its way far beyond 
the blue vault of Heaven. I can see my dear par- 
ents traversing the pearl-paved streets of the New 
Jerusalem, plucking golden fruits from the Tree of 
Life, quaffing crystal waters from a perennial foun- 
tain, and gathering the amaranthine flowers of per- 
fect happiness that bloom upon the banks of that 
river which proceeds from the throne of God. I 


THE SECRET FOE 


57 


can see them striking the thrilling chords of some 
entrancing harp to the praise of Him who reigns for 
aye, and bending in adoration, together with apostles, 
prophets, saints and martyrs, before the great white 
throne, upon which reclines the ‘Lamb of God that 
taketh away the sin of the world.’ ” 

Genevieve spoke as if inspired, her brown eyes 
shone with a resplendent lustre; she reminded Mr. 
Bertram of one of the prophetesses of the olden 
time. He gazed upon her with a species of idolatry; 
involuntarily he relinquished her hands and en- 
circled her slender form in his arms. Genevieve 
would have torn herself from his embrace, but he 
would not permit her. He said in low, passionate 
tones : 

“Genevieve, my darling, my darling, be no longer 
lonely and desolate ; consent to become my wife, my 
cherished wife, the angel of my home, the one pre- 
cious gem to be valued more highly than all the 
pearls of Bahrein or diamonds of Golconda. Let me 
share your sorrows, let me increase your joys. Be 
all in all to me as I shall be to you.” 

He felt the slight form flutter in his embrace as 
a caged bird, but no words issued from the girl’s 
lips. 

“Speak, Genevieve,” he cried; “my happiness de- 
pends upon your answer. I love you so entirely, so 
devotedly. I have loved you from the first moment 
I beheld your sweet face, so full of truth and purity. 
Does not such love deserve a reciprocity of affection 
from you? Tell me, my heart’s idol, that you will be- 
come mine, — mine forever.” 

Genevieve conquered her powerful emotions and 
answered : 


58 


GENEVIEVE 


“Oh, Mr. Bertram, it is impossible, — impos- 
sible r 

“But why impossible, Genevieve?” he questioned 
in eager, agonized tones. “Is your heart already an- 
other’s? Was the lesson of love conned before you 
saw me? Am I to be plunged into a gulf of despair? 
Will you not at least consider my proposal?” 

Genevieve replied in a low voice: 

“My heart acknowledges no other allegiance. I 
have never loved before; but, sir, your mother, — 
Mrs. Bertram, — she would be grievously offended. 
I imagine she wishes a union between you and Miss 
Clayborne.” 

“You do love me then, Genevieve? You do 
not deny it; you will give me the sweet assurance in 
words, will you not, darling?” 

He bowed his ear to her mouth ; the murmur came 
in a low tone, inaudible save to the quick ear of 
love: “I do love you, Mr. Bertram.” 

He clasped her to his bosom in a transport of 
joy; he said rapturously: 

“Then go with me to my mother to-morrow morn- 
ing, dearest. I will present you to her as my prom- 
ised wife, will tell her that my happiness rests in 
your hands, that my love for you is entwined with 
every fibre of my being. She will give her consent, 
will receive you as her daughter, will smile upon us, 
and bestow her blessing.” 

“I cannot, sir; indeed, I cannot; the ordeal would 
be too trying; she might refuse to yield her consent. 
Instead of being the dove of peace to bring the olive 
branch to your heart, I might create discord in your 
home. My birth may be equal to yours though I 
know little of my ancestry, but I am penniless and 


THE SECRET FOE 59 

dependent upon your mother’s bounty, and my sta- 
tion in life is inferior to yours.” 

“Such trivial things are of no consequence to me, 
Genevieve. You possess a heritage of beauty, of 
intellect and of amiability far more precious in my 
eyes than all the golden treasures of Croesus or the 
river Pactolus. 1 will undertake to gain not only 
my mother’s consent, but her unqualified approba- 
tion; and in the meantime, Genevieve, I shall regard 
you as my affianced bride. Do not shake your head, 
dearest; I can never bow at any other shrine, even 
if you would spurn the proffered tribute. You are 
the embodiment of all that is pure and lovely. If 
there are obstacles in the way of our union, I shall 
overcome them. Sure of your love, my strength will 
become Herculean, I will be enabled to surmount the 
greatest difficulties, to untie Gordian knots, to tri- 
umph over even destiny itself to gain my peerless 
Genevieve.” 

Genevieve withdrew herself from his encircling 
arms and raised her face to his. Their eyes met in a 
long, deep, lingering look of love; then she slowly 
retired from the room. His glance followed her 
with intense admiration, with profound reverence, 
and his lips softly murmured : 

“Good night, sweet innocence; may seraphs hover 
around thy couch this night, may Somnus gently 
enfold thee in his arms, and Morpheus sweetly 
whisper to thee of me.” 

After Genevieve’s departure Mr. Bertram sat for 
many moments in a blissful dream from which he 
scarcely wished to be awakened; but finally he raised 
his eyes as if he felt the magnetic power of other 
eyes upon them. His glance wandered slowly around 


6o 


GENEVIEVE 


the room, and at last was directed toward the veran- 
da just outside the window by which he was sitting. 
There in full view stood a woman draped in black, 
with a deep hectic flush burning on each cheek and 
a demoniacal light blazing in her black eyes. He 
ejaculated : 

“My God! It is Stella Lorraine !” 

The woman stepped through the open window 
into the room and confronted him. She laughed a 
low, mocking laugh and hissed between her white 
teeth : 

“Stella Bertram !” 

“Never!” gasped Mr. Bertram, who had arisen 
but who now sank back pale and agitated into his 
seat, while his hands fell nervelessly at his side. 


CHAPTER V 


THE DISCOVERY 

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
Than are dream’t of in your philosophy.” 

The heart hath its mystery, and who may reveal it, 

Or who ever read in the depth of their own 
How much we never may speak of, yet feel it, 

But even in feeling it know it unknown ?” 

— Miss Landon. 

When Mr. Bertram had somewhat recovered his 
composure he asked sternly: 

“Woman, what brought you hither at this unsea- 
sonable hour? Why do you prowl around my house 
at this time of the night like a thief or an assassin? 
Who gave you entrance into these walls?” 

“No one,” she answered haughtily; “I am the wife 
of the master of this house and its rightful mistress. 
I entered these walls unobserved; perhaps I gained 
an entrance by magic; perhaps I bore Aladdin’s 
wonderful lamp about me. At any rate, I shall not 
satisfy your curiosity — suffice it to know that I am 
here; that I have been here night after night; have 
watched you as you sat reading or smoking or 
dreaming of your peerless Genevieve. I played the 
eavesdropper on the evening that you and she met in 
the summer-house, and I have been the unseen wit- 
ness of the very affecting interview that was held 
between you this night.” 

“But, woman, after all that occurred between us 
seven years ago, what brings you hither? Is it to 

61 


6 2 


GENEVIEVE 


rob me of the dearest wish of my heart? To 
poison the ear of my pure-souled Genevieve? Your 
villainous scheme will be abortive. We were law- 
fully divorced. Genevieve will not refuse to marry 
me when she learns that I was the victim of a dam- 
nable plot and that you were its author. Beware, 
Stella Lorraine, how you trifle with me. I would con- 
sider it no violation of the rules of hospitality to 
summon my servants and to Jiave you .forcibly ejected 
from these walls. ” 

Just then the bird-like voice of Viola was heard 
in the hall warbling a melody; she approached the 
library and laid her hand upon the knob of the door. 
The woman whom we must hereafter call Stella Lor- 
raine sprang through the open window, hissing be- 
tween her clenched teeth, “I will yet have my re- 
venge.” 

She soon disappeared in the foliage. Viola looked 
in. Mr. Bertram averted his face; he could not bear 
that she should witness his emotions. She inquired 
for Genevieve. Mr. Bertram answered carelessly 
that she was not in the library and the girl closed the 
door and tripped off upstairs to her room. It is impos- 
sible to portray the feelings of Mr. Bertram when 
he found himself thus confronted by a new and ter- 
rible obstacle in the way of the consummation of his 
happiness. 

“If my mother consents,” he said to himself, “it 
will be but avoiding Scylla to plunge into Charybdis. 
Genevieve will never marry me if this woman con- 
tests my hand with her; she has all the pride of a 
Catherine de Medici without any of her evil quali- 
ties. My God! After Stella Lorraine has preserved 
quiet all these years, why does she come to torture 


THE DISCOVERY 


63 


me now? Has she kept a secret spy upon my ac- 
tions, or has she herself performed the part of one? 
How well do I remember the words she uttered on 
the day that the divorce was granted. She hissed in 
my ears then even as she did to-night, ‘I will yet have 
my revenge.’ But my suspense must be relieved; 
she may be lingering in the grounds; I must find her, 
and, if possible, have an interview with her.” 

He carefully closed and secured the window; then 
he went out into the hall, donned his hat and shawl, 
and went out into the night. He prosecuted a silent 
and thorough search through the yard, but no trace 
of his nocturnal visitor was visible. 

Genevieve sat by the open window in her apart- 
ment which was situated just above the library. T he 
orphan was looking out upon the glorious winter 
night, too strangely happy to sleep, a whirl of de- 
lightful emotions filling her heart. Mr. Bertram 
was her ideal of manly beauty and excellence; she 
believed him to be one of nature’s own noblemen; 
a king among men; his love was as the Grapes of 
Eshcol to her lonely heart. She indulged in the most 
sanguine hopes, the most joyful expectations. She 
felt assured that Mrs. Bertram would not withhold 
her consent to their union when she became con- 
vinced that it was absolutely necessary to the peace 
of her son. Oh, who shall paint an innocent maid- 
en’s first dream of love ! As fragrant as the flowers 
of spring, — as pure as the snowflakes that fall from 
the clouds, — as beautiful as the undying tints of the 
rainbow, — as precious as the hope of heaven! 
Genevieve sat absorbed in thought, her fancy color- 
ing the most beautiful pictures, — pictures that might 
have done credit to a Raphael, a Leonardo da Vinci, 


6 4 


GENEVIEVE 


or a Titian, but her sweet dreams were suddenly dis- 
pelled by hearing the subdued sound of voices in 
the library below her room. 

She listened attentively; she had supposed that 
the whole household had retired with the exception 
of Mr. Bertram. She leaned out of the window and 
presently she saw the tall and elegant figure of a 
woman step from the library window, hastily de- 
scend the steps of the veranda and vanish in the 
shadows. A few moments later she heard Mr. Ber- 
tram close and lock the front door and descend the 
steps. She looked eagerly; she saw him follow the 
direction that the woman had taken. 

“My God!” she cried, falling back into her chair 
and clasping her hands over her heart. “Have I 
made my idol only to find it clay?” 

She waited in agonized suspense for the return of 
Mr. Bertram. After about an hour had elapsed 
he came, walking slowly and dejectedly. As he 
passed beneath Genevieve’ls window he suddenly 
paused and looked upward. Genevieve would have 
retreated but it was too late, — he had seen her. An 
idea occurred to him. Genevieve had seen the 
woman and his pursuit of her, — what construction 
would she place upon it? He said softly: 

“Genevieve, a woman whom I had not seen for 
seven years entered the library through the window 
that opened upon the veranda a few minutes after 
your departure. I had some conversation with her 
but in my astonishment failed to elicit from her 
the reason of her visit; she fled precipitately at the 
approach of Viola; I pursued to discover by what 
means she gained access within these walls. 1 ’ 

He paused; the cloud lifted from the orphan’s 


THE DISCOVERY 65 

brow; he asked in a voice exquisitely low and tender: 

u You trust me, do you not, Genevieve?” 

She answered solemnly and from her heart : 

“I do.” 

He waved his hand in token of adieu and soon 
entered the house. Genevieve thought she had found 
a clue to the apparition that she had beheld on the 
first night of her arrival and to the alarm that fol- 
lowed. She said to herself: “This woman is doubt- 
less some evil-minded creature lurking about the 
house for some purpose of her own, or she may be 
an enemy of the family and intent upon mischief. 
Mr. Bertram must have heard that scream which 
frightened me, but pretended not to have done so 
on my account for fear of alarming me too much.” 

The following morning Genevieve sat in Viola’s 
room. The latter stood before her mirror combing 
and curling her sunny hair. She said, with a merry 
twinkle in her cerulean eyes : 

“Genevieve, my aunt and I had a long conversa- 
tion yesterday; she made quite a revelation to me. 
Guess what it was.” 

“I am not an adept in guessing, Viola, and fear 
I should make a mortifying failure; enlighten me 
without testing my powers, will you not?” 

Viola blushed, then she answered gaily: 

“My aunt informed me that it was the dearest 
wish of her heart to see me the wife of my cousin 
Vivian; she declared that we were both descended 
from a long and illustrious line of ancestors; that 
we were peculiarly adapted to each other; that by 
marrying we would unite two noble fortunes, and so 
forth. I declare my aunt’s powers of persuasion 
are eloquent and irresistible. I am quite in the no- 


66 


GENEVIEVE 


tion to spread my snares for the heart of my hand- 
some and unsuspecting cousin. I wonder, though, 
that he did not become enslaved by your charms, for 
I must confess that you are far more beautiful than 
I am, — more spiritual. When I first saw you in 
this gloomy old house that sweet verse of Gray’s 
‘Elegy on a Country Churchyard’ came into my 
mind: , ' \ -v l; l| 

“ ‘Full many a gem of purest ray serene, 

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.* 

I thought it so appropriate to you.” 

Genevieve maintained an icy composure, her face 
averted from the gay girl who rattled on. Viola’s 
spirits were unusually exhilarated at the idea of her 
aunt’s wishing her to make a conquest of her 
princely cousin. She said gleefully: 

“I shall have to devote many moments to my toi- 
let hereafter. My cousin Vivian is quite a con- 
noisseur, I doubt not, and it would be unbecoming 
in his bride-elect and the future mistress of Castle 
Gloom not to consult his tastes.” 

Viola was only jesting in her volatile way, but 
her words fell unpleasantly upon the sensitive ear 
of our heroine. She arose and said: “With your 
permission, while you are adorning yourself to capti- 
vate Mr. Bertram I will indulge in a short ramble.” 

“Certainly, my fair queen of beauty,” laughed the 
charming Hebe; “but do not dare to enter the lists 
against me, for you are looking as radiant as Helen 
of Troy this morning. If Lord Vivian crosses your 
path, veil the splendor of your countenance, I hum- 
bly beseech you.” 


t 


THE DISCOVERY 67 

Genevieve strolled out into the yard. Old Oscar, 
the groom, in accordance with Mr. Bertram’s direc- 
tions, was making a careful examination of the wall, 
in order to discover if there was any breach in it. 
At Genevieve’s request he unlocked the great double 
gate and she made her exit from the enclosure. She 
slowly wended her way along a narrow path that 
led through the grand old woods and had gone some 
distance from the house when she paused by a small 
spring that bubbled from beneath an overhanging 
rock, whose surface was covered with dark green 
moss. At the same instant a rustling noise, proceed- 
ing from a dense cluster of whortleberry bushes sit- 
uated on the right of her path, attracted her atten- 
tion. She turned and beheld the black-draped 
woman who had been her traveling companion 
emerging from the thicket, with a pistol in her hand. 
With the rapidity of lightning she leveled it at the 
breast of the defenseless girl and fired; but the same 
God who permitteth not a “sparrow to fall to the 
ground without His knowledge” interposed to save 
the helpless girl, and sent her a protector in the hour 
of need. Vivian Bertram had also been inspecting 
the wall and had seen Genevieve pass through the 
portal. He remembered the threat of the vindic- 
tive woman, and, fearing that Genevieve might en- 
counter her, that she might wreak upon the gentle 
girl the vengeance she had sworn upon him, he 
silently followed, and at the instant that the pistol 
was presented and simultaneously discharged he 
stepped noiselessly behind the woman, threw up her 
hand and caused the ball to fall wide of its mark. 
Then he snatched the pistol from her grasp and 
hurled it into the small stream. The would-be mur- 


68 


GENEVIEVE 


deress turned upon him like an enraged tigress, her 
eyes glaring wildly, her whole frame quivering with 
a tornado of wrath. Genevieve recoiled in horror, 
her face ghastly with fright. She cried out : 

“My God! what have I done to deserve such 
bitter hatred? Who is this terrible Nemesis that 
threatens to destroy my life?” 

“Who is it, indeed?” cried the woman. “Know, 
girl, that I am the wife of Vivian Bertram, the 
master of this lordly domain, the man who but last 
night pledged you his vows and promised to make 
you his wife, when she who bears that title still lives. 
Ah! did I not tell you that if you crossed my path I 
would crush you as I would crush a viper. Speak, 
girl,” she continued, clutching at Genevieve’s robe. 
“Speak, and do not gaze upon me as if I were some 
frightful Gorgon, when I am only an injured wife, 
one whom you have cruelly wronged, whom you 
have basely endeavored to supplant, you smooth- 
faced, canting hypocrite.” 

Mr. Bertram alone was calm. He questioned 
Genevieve : 

“Have you ever seen this woman before?” 

Our heroine’s cheeks had flushed from a pallid 
whiteness to a burning, glowing red; her eyes shone 
like midnight stars; her small form was drawn to 
its full height; her mien was that of an empress. 
She answered haughtily: 

“I have. She was my companion during my jour- 
ney from Spring Vale to Glenville. When she dis- 
covered my destination she made some cruel threats 
which I did not understand then and which she was 
about to put into execution just now.” 

“Genevieve,” cried Mr. Bertram, agonized at her 


THE DISCOVERY 


69 


icy demeanor, “this woman is hateful to me; she is 
my divorced wife.” Then, turning to Stella Lor- 
raine, he stamped his foot and said: 

“Begone, before I am tempted to dip my hands 
in your blood, to tear out your false heart and cast 
it as a dainty morsel to the vultures. I hate you ! 
God knows, I hate you with a perfect hatred— hate 
you as I hate the loathsome reptile or the prowling 
wolf. You have thrust your envenomed fangs into 
the heart of the only woman I can ever love. You 
have transformed it from the softest wave to the 
hardest stone.” 

“Vivian!” exclaimed the woman, prostrating her- 
self at his feet and raising her bold black eyes to 
his face, “I love you ! I love you ! I loved you then, 
but I was infatuated, by a man whose small, mean 
soul was revealed to me afterward. Ah! I was 
madly infatuated with him, but he forsook me in 
my extremity for another, a doll-faced fool. But,” 
clenching her hands until the blood started from 
the incisions made by her nails, she said, in fiendish 
glee, “I made them feel my power. They died, 
slow, lingering deaths of torture, and I presented 
the poisoned chalice, I administered the poisoned 
beverage, which they drank as a sweet draught to 
quench their insatiable thirst. I, in disguise, in the 
garb of a servant, assisted them to disencumber 
themselves of their tenements of clay. . Oh, Vivian, 
my husband, take me into your arms again, clasp 
me to your heart, let me feel its pulsations, let your 
warm breath fan my cheeks as of yore! I will 
reform, will be all that your fond heart once deemed 
me to be.” 

“Silence!” almost shouted Mr. Bertram, while 


GENEVIEVE 



he stamped his foot in furious anger, his haughty 
black eyes blazing with livid lightnings. “Silence, 
and begone! My heart is harder to you than ada- 
mant, colder than an iceberg. I detest you. Make 
your escape while it is possible, before I am in- 
duced to give you into the hands of the law and 
let you pay the penalty of your crimes upon the 
scaffold.” 

Stella Lorraine slowly arose and said, with a 
smile as cold as the wind that sweeps across the ice- 
fields around the North Pole: 

“I go, Vivian Bertram; but I have no fears — 
you will never commit your wife into the execu- 
tioner’s hands. It would be too great a blow to 
the lofty pride of the descendant of a time-honored 
family, of a race of patricians, upon whose brows 
the ducal coronet has so long rested. You will 
never involve your name in a tale of scandal. Fare- 
well, Vivian Bertram and Genevieve De Vere; I 
will yet have my revenge.” 

She made a sweeping curtsy and a motion as if 
to depart. Genevieve entreated: 

“Abandon your scheme of vengeance, madam. 
I have been an innocent and unsuspecting accessory 
to the wrong that Mr. Bertram meditated. I 
promise you that I shall never become his wife.” 

She answered in tones full of bitterness: 

“I hate you, girl. For your sake my husband has 
spurned me. But for you I might have again 
wielded the sceptre, might have again resumed 
my sway over his heart. I go to concoct a darker, 
deadlier, more effectual scheme of vengeance.” 

She turned and fled into the woods. Mr. Ber- 
tram would have overtaken her, but the sound of 


THE DISCOVERY 


7i 


a heavy fall arrested his footsteps. Genevieve lay 
upon the dead leaves in a swoon. She was white 
and motionless; her slender form resembled some 
olden classical Caryatid, or seemed metamorphosed 
into a statue fresh from the forming and beautify- 
ing hand of a Canova. Mr. Bertram looked upon 
her with unutterable anguish; he longed to take 
her in his arms, to lavish upon her the tenderest 
caresses, but her last words had separated them. 
He feared she would consider his touch pollution; 
he regarded her as something sacred and beyond 
his* reach, a creature pure and holy, an earthborn 
angel. He stooped and, dipping water from the 
tiny spring, sprinkled it upon her face. She began 
to revive; she opened her eyes and beheld the 
anxious, grief-stricken face bending over her; a low 
wail of agony escaped her lips and again that cry: 

“Have I made my idol to find it clay? Have I 
placed it upon my heart’s loftiest and most sacred 
pedestal, only to see it fall and crumble to dust?” 

“Genevieve,” besought the sorrowing man, “have 
compassion upon me. I did not intentionally de- 
ceive you. I would have disclosed the events of my 
past life on the night of our meeting in the summer- 
house, but you refused to hear me. I would have 
told you last night in the library, but my love over- 
came my better judgment and I determined to post- 
pone the recital until to-day. Hear me now and 
pity me, for I cannot give you up — you are infinitely 
more precious to me than life itself.” 

She shook her head despairingly, and he went on : 

“When I was about twenty-three years old I made 
a tour through Georgia and Florida. I wished to 
visit the Falls of Tallulah and Tocoa, for my nature 


72 


GENEVIEVE 


was highly romantic, and, although I had traveled 
extensively in Europe, I promised much enjoyment 
to myself in visiting the natural curiosities of my 
own Southland. While I was journeying from place 
to place I accidentally met with a party of tourists 
who invited me to join them — an invitation which I 
joyfully accepted, as I was particularly fascinated 
with one of their number, a beautiful Floridian girl, 
a creature as radiant as a Persian peri or a Turkish 
houri. Oh, Genevieve ! you can form little idea 
from her appearance now of the charms of Stella 
Lorraine at eighteen. She was magnificently hand- 
some, splendidly educated, her voice as sweet as a 
siren’s. We were then in Georgia. She was poor, 
the traveling companion of an old, sickly and irrita- 
ble woman; her duties were irksome to her; she was 
lively and sociable; the old lady was moody and 
nervous. If Stella laughed in her presence she 
would exhaust the vocabulary of opprobious epi- 
thets upon her. The girl’s life became intolerable; 
she determined to change it. She was the daughter 
of a planter who had formerly possessed immense 
wealth, but had lost it by bad speculations. She 
who had been accustomed to roll in affluence could 
ill brook poverty. I was wildly, madly infatuated 
with her; she was piquant and interesting, vivacious 
and entertaining and skillful at repartee, and she 
kept me ever near her by her soft blandishments. 
Among our number was a man who was also a 
suitor for her hand. They seemed to be on the 
most amicable terms, and he even addressed her 
with titles of endearment. I was furiously jealous 
and enraged, and, to conciliate me, the beautiful 
Circe promised a speedy marriage. My reason ab- 


THE DISCOVERY 


73 


dicated its throne; I was guided altogether by the 
dictates of my heart. So absorbed was I in my in- 
toxicating dreams of love that I neglected to ac- 
quaint my mother of my intentions; I resolved to 
make sure of my bride, then bear her to my home 
among the hills and present her as a beautiful sur- 
prise to my mother, feeling confident that she would 
sanction my marriage. The appointed hour ar- 
rived. I, the unsuspecting tropical bird, was united 
to a subtle, bewildering serpent. 

“That was at noon on the twentieth day of Oc- 
tober; we were just about to commence our home- 
ward journey when I was summoned away upon 
important business. My servant who had accom- 
panied me during my wanderings (the same old man 
who unlocked the gate for you a short time ago) 
had been thrown from the phaeton which I had pur- 
chased as a traveling vehicle, preferring it to the 
uncomfortable stages, and had sustained some se- 
vere injuries. On account of this accident I deter- 
mined to delay setting out for a few days. Stella 
acquiesced in my plan. I procured lodgings for my 
faithful Oscar in a farmhouse and conveyed him 
thither, and a physician, who was also a surgeon, 
bore us company. I did not leave him until even- 
ing. On my way to the hotel I passed a small 
bower which was a favorite resort of Stella’s. I 
heard voices within engaged in earnest conversa- 
tion; one was hers. I peeped through the inter- 
lacing vines to obtain a glimpse of the creature I 
loved, to see whom she had honored with her so- 
ciety. The sight that I beheld turned the sweets of 
life to bitterest gall, the love I bore her to the 
fiercest hatred. The man who was her lover, who 


74 


GENEVIEVE 


had been her wooer, sat by her side, his arm en- 
circled her waist; she reclined upon his bosom; he 
toyed with her hair, imprinting kisses upon her lips. 
And even as I stood there they arranged their plans 
for the future. He was to follow her to her new 
home, to remain ever near her, but to avoid me. 
My fortune was to be divided between them; I was 
to be but a mere puppet in their hands, and when 
I shuffled off this mortal coil he was to step into my 
place. I staggered into their presence like an ine- 
briate; I hurled the bitterest invectives at them; I 
dared him to open combat, but he fled, terrified at 
my wrath. I know not what I said, nor what I did, 
but I rested neither day nor night until a divorce 
was obtained. Then I returned home, where I have 
remained ever since, buried in the deepest seclusion, 
hiding my secret in my own breast, not even reveal- 
ing it to my mother. Until last night I had not seen 
that face, as hateful to me as Medusa’s, for seven 
years, but I doubt not that she has kept herself well 
acquainted with my affairs, though I had no such 
suspicion until after you left me last night. Gene- 
vieve, my darling, I have finished. Judge me not 
harshly, I implore you. Have mercy upon me even 
as you expect mercy.” 

He knelt before her, a pleading look in his dark, 
suffering eyes, but Genevieve was inexorable; her 
word was as immutable as the laws of the Medes 
and Persians. The tears ran down her pale cheeks 
like rain. She said, in the low, hollow voice of de- 
spair: 

“I cannot be your wife, Mr. Bertram, while she 
who once bore that name still lives. It would be 
against my principles. I would be degraded in my 


THE DISCOVERY 


75 


own estimation. I do not censure you for procuring 
a divorce; your conduct was not reprehensible, but, 
oh! you would be transgressing the righteous law 
of God to marry again; you would lay yourself 
liable to receive some awful punishment; you would 
surely incur the displeasure of Him who maketh 
the ‘heavens His throne and the earth His foot- 
stool; ” 

“Genevieve,” he cried passionately, “your sense 
of honor is too exalted; hundreds are divorced and 
marry again; it is no crime. God approves of di- 
vorces. Were there no extenuating circumstances 
in my case? The woman was a smooth-lipped Deli- 
lah, a perfidious traitress. Do not doom me to 
misery, — do not blast my expectations; do not com- 
pel my hopes, like Dead Sea apples, to turn into bit- 
ter dust and ashes.” 

She put out her hands blindly, like one groping 
in darkness. She said: 

“I too am drinking of the Waters of Marah; 
they are bitter to my soul. Oh, God! is there no 
Pool of Siloam, where I may receive sight to guide 
me beyond this gloom? Is there no Balm of Gilead 
for my gaping wound?” 

“Ah, how can you expect God to have mercy 
upon you when you have none on a fellow-creature? 
Genevieve, I beseech you, reflect upon what you are 
doing, — you are casting away a pearl of great price; 
a heart that loves you truly.” 

But Genevieve gave him no time to complete his 
sentence; she made him no reply. She hurried on to the 
house as fast as her tottering footsteps could carry 
her. Old Oscar, who had awaited her return, un- 
locked the gate and she hastened to her room where 


7 6 


GENEVIEVE 


she threw herself upon the floor while a hurricane 
of grief swept over her soul. 

For fully an hour she lay there, her violent sobs 
gradually diminishing and finally ceasing altogether, 
while a sort of stupor crept over her, from which she 
was aroused by Pinky, her maid, knocking for ad- 
mittance. Genevieve arose wearily and opened the 
door. On beholding her the good-natured Ethiopian 
exclaimed nn amazement: u Lors! Miss Jinnybeeb, 
how you duz look; yer cheeks is mose in er blaze, 
dey’se as red as fire. I ’spec’ as how you’se got a 
fever.” 

Genevieve began to realize that she was indeed 
sick; her head ached, her temples throbbed, her 
ears tingled, the blood was coursing like lightning 
through her veins, her breath came quick and short, 
and her tongue was so parched that it clove to the 
roof of her mouth. 

“Undress me, Pinky, my good girl,” she said 
feebly, “and assist me to bed.” 

The girl did as was required. Genevieve’s nerves 
were strung to the highest pitch. She began to grow 
delirious and to rave. Pinky became alarmed; she 
flew downstairs and electrified her mistress, Mr. 
Bertram and Viola, — who were only awaiting Gene- 
vieve’s appearance to seat themselves at the dinner- 
table, — with the news that, “Miss Jinnybeeb is dun 
fer, sartin; she’se in a high fever an’ I ’spec’ as how 
she’se clean out ob her head.” 

Mrs. Bertram and Viola hastened upstairs im- 
mediately, where the former, perceiving the situation 
of our heroine, administered a febrifuge and came 
down again to dispatch a servant for the nearest 
physician. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE REVELATION 

And I ska. 

And I ska. 

And Iska’s a lady. 

— Braham. 

Holy St. Francis! What a change is here! 

Is Rosaline, whom thou dost love so dear, 

■So soon forsaken? Young men’s love then lies 
Not truly in their hearts, hut in their eyes. 

— Shakespeare. 

On her return to the foot of the staircase Mrs. 
Bertram encountered her son, who had been pacing 
the dining-room floor in a state of the greatest agi- 
tation. His wild eyes arrested her attention; she 
paused involuntarily. He approached and said in 
a gasping voice : 

“Genevieve, my mother, — how is she?” 

“Genevieve has been taken suddenly and seriously 
ill, my son; she has a raging fever and is tossing in 
delirium. I have been compelled to summon a phy- 
sician.” 

Mr. Bertram groaned aloud; he sank down upon 
the steps. Mrs. Bertram seated herself beside hin 
and inquired: 


78 


GENEVIEVE 


“Why does the sudden indisposition of Genevieve 
affect you so, my son?” 

The strong man bowed his head upon his mother’s 
shoulder and wept. In a broken and incoherent 
voice he related to her the history of his past life, 
as he had done to Genevieve the previous evening; 
told of his marriage and subsequent divorce; of his 
love for our heroine and its reciprocation; of the 
delightful hope he had cherished of gaining her con- 
sent to their union; of the appearance of his repu- 
diated wife and her attempt upon Genevieve’s life; 
of the absolute refusal of the latter to become his 
wife while Stella Lorraine lived, and of all his hope- 
less misery. 

Mrs. Bertram’s attention was engrossed; she was 
astounded at the revelation. When he had finished 
she said: 

“You should have made me your confidant long 
ago, my son; my sympathy would have lightened 
the burden you have so long borne. I scarcely ex- 
pected your choice to have fallen upon Genevieve. 
1 had selected Viola as your future wife, but we 
will not talk of that now. Genevieve shall be the 
object of my tenderest care; her love for you and 
yours for her render her sacred in my eyes. She 
has a mistaken idea of honor; I do not see why she 
should immolate her heart upon the altar of pride 
when the world considers divorce no crime.” 

Genevieve did not die; skilful medical aid and 
attentive nursing saved her life, or were the means 
employed by the Lord in doing so. The learned 
pupil of Esculapius said to Mr. Bertram, whose evi- 
dent solicitude about the invalid had not escaped 
his observation : 


THE REVELATION 


79 


“Miss De Vere has sustained a severe mental 
shock, but she will recover; her constitution is fine 
and the disposition of youth is naturally buoyant and 
elastic; she will be all right in a few weeks.” 

Viola was unceasing in her gentle ministrations; 
she endeared herself to the orphan by a thousand 
delicate attentions. After the commencement of her 
convalescence our heroine received a letter from 
Mr. Bertram. It ran thus: 

“Genevieve : Your illness has pained me beyond measure. I 
have suffered the most excruciating tortures of mind for the last 
fortnight. Forgive me, if possible, for winning your pure heart 
and then wrecking its happiness. I feel that it would be utterly 
useless to entreat you to become my wife; you are not governed 
by whims and caprices; your determination is, I believe, unalter- 
able, but oh, if you should ever relent, should ever banish your 
conscientious scruples, only so much as hint it to me and I will 
be at your feet in a moment, will entreat you to bestow upon 
me that inestimable treasure, that boon which I crave above all 
others, — your dear hand! I understand your nature so well; I 
know that by this time you have resolved to leave this house, 
to place yourself beyond my reach, but I entreat you, do not 
go. My grief will be partially mitigated, if you will consent to 
remain. Oh, Genevieve, in return for the love I have lavished 
upon you, make me this promise. Let me be as a brother, a 
proteotor. I will never mention the prohibited subject, never 
intrude upon your presence when I can avoid it. On the con- 
trary, if you refuse my request, if you persist in leaving this 
house, I will depart also, will forsake my mother in her old age, 
and become a wanderer upon the face of the earth. You are 
too delicate, too sensitive, to be cast upon the great arena of life 
without the support of a friend. I have scoured the valley and 
the surrounding country in search of Stella Lorraine, but she 
has disappeared. The stage-driver declared that a woman stopped 
his coach about three miles beyond Glenville the morning after 
her attack upon you and remained in it until it connected with the 
Berkely stage. He said also that it was the same woman who 
traveled with you when you came to Glenville. I fully intended 
to give her into the hands of the law. You need apprehend no 
immediate danger from her, but oh, Genevieve, if you go out 
alone to battle with the world, who shall protect you from so 


8o 


GENEVIEVE 


vengeful a creature? May your health and, if possible, your 
happiness, soon be fully restored, and may Heaven’s richest, 
choicest blessings be showered abundantly upon your head. 

“Vivian Bertram.” 

This letter was brought to Genevieve by Chloe, 
Viola’s maid, who said: 

“Here, Miss; Mars Vivian told me to gib dis 
here what he writ into yer han’s an’ not fur to let 
nobody else see hit.” 

Genevieve carefully perused it; she murmured to 
herself: 

“He leaves me no other alternative.” 

She wrote : 

“Mr. Bertram : It is my earnest wish to leave this house 
in order that you may forget me, that the memory of. Genevieve 
may be to you as a dream and her image as a vision of the 
night. I do not fear Stella Lorraine; her revenge may destroy 
the casket but it cannot -tarnish the brightness of the gem within, 
which I have dedicated to God. May He who wept in Gethsem- 
ane, Who bled upon Calvary, pour the balm of consolation into 
your wounded heart. Genevieve.” 

Christmas morning dawned clear, cold and beau- 
tiful. A winding-sheet of snow lay upon the ground 
like the mantle of charity over some dying Magda- 
len. Festoons of frost-work glittered like diamonds 
in the day-god’s beams; icicles hung pendant from 
every bough and shrub; a delicate tracery of the 
snow-king’s handiwork adorned the window-panes; 
wreaths of shining vapor fantastically ascended 
from the stream that wound its serpentine way 
through the valley to the blue concave of heaven. 
The whole vale resembled some fairy grotto, some 
enchanted castle, or some subterranean cavern, 
glittering with its hidden wealth of diamonds and 


THE REVELATION 


81 


sapphires, pearls and rubies, emeralds and ame- 
thysts. The* sun, shining upon the dazzling white- 
ness of the earth, gave it in places all the hues of 
the rainbow. Genevieve came downstairs for the 
first time since her recovery, looking wan and 
ethereal, as graceful and fragile as the first frail blos- 
soms of spring. Her enfeebled frame was closely 
enveloped in a large black shawl and a white nubia 
was wound around her small head. Sickness had 
not diminished her glorious beauty; on the contrary, 
it had rendered her far more interesting. 

“Her eyes were like the sparkling gems, 

That shine in mermaids’ diadems, 

Where coral reefs and pearly caves 

Lie hid ’neath ocean’s deepest waves.” 

It was the custom of Mrs. Bertram to permit her 
servants to come forward every Christmas morning 
to lay in their complaints, to make their requests, 
and to receive such presents as she had purchased 
for their gratification. In accordance with this cus- 
tom, therefore, quite a number of negroes were as- 
sembled in the great kitchen and were entering one 
at a time into the great dining-room which for the 
present was converted into a reception or audience 
chamber. Some of these servants were decrepit 
with age, others were robust and sinewy with health 
and strength, and the young children skipped and 
danced like frolicsome fawns. All, however, had 
the appearance of being well fed, well clad and well 
treated; all were supplied with an abundant crop of 
wool on their heads and a quantity of shining ivory 
teeth in their mouths, the latter being displayed on 
every occasion. 


82 


GENEVIEVE 


One of the last to make her appearance was an 
old woman, who hobbled up the steps leaning upon a 
crutch; she made a respectful courtesy to Mrs. Ber- 
tram, who stood in the center of the apartment; 
then her eyes slowly wandered around the room, 
resting first upon Mr. Bertram, then upon Viola, 
and finally upon Genevieve, who stood by an open 
window contemplating the dazzling scene without. 
As she caught a view of our heroine her tongue pro- 
truded from her mouth in amazement and her eyes 
seemed about to burst out of their sockets. She 
cried out in a shrill voice : 

“Marster Jesus! if thar han’t Miss Lilian come 
back shore enuf — shore enuf! I tole dem thick- 
skulled, muddle-brained darkeys she’d be arter 
cornin’ back to see ole Phyllis.” 

Mrs. Bertram was greatly agitated; at that mo- 
ment she also beheld in Genevieve a striking resem- 
blance to one she had known, as she had done on 
the night that she first beheld the orphan. She ques- 
tioned: 

“What makes you call the young lady Lilian, 
Phyllis? Do you not see that she is scarcely as old 
now as Lilian was when she left us?” 

The glad look vanished from the old woman’s 
face, tears came into her dim eyes, and she an- 
swered disappointedly: 

“Lors, missus, you’s right, as you allers is; but 
if dat bean’t Miss Lilian hit is shorely her g’ose, 
fur I neber seed two black-eyed peas so much alike 
afore.” 

Genevieve approached, unclasping a small gold 
chain that encircled her neck and opening a chaste 
gold medallion which was attached to it. She pre- 


THE REVELATION 


83 


sented it to the old woman and said: 

“My good mammy, my mother’s name was Lilian 
and my father often told me that I was her exact 
image. Here is her picture; do you recognize it?” 

Aunt Phyllis wiped the tears from her dim eyes, 
closely scanned the features depicted upon the glass 
before her, and exclaimed: 

“Marster Jesus! hit is Miss Lilian,” and, catch- 
ing sight of the face on the opposite side, almost 
screamed, “an’ thar’s Mars Walter too, shore as 
de Lord reigns.” 

Mrs. Bertram advanced and examined the pic- 
ture. She cried: 

“These are indeed the miniature representations 
of Walter and Lilian St. Julian. Oh, Genevieve, 
why did you conceal your identity? Why did the 
child of Lilian, whom I loved as a daughter, come 
to my house under an assumed name, to earn her 
bread, when she might have had thousands at her 
disposal, and have gratified every wish of her 
heart?” 

“Oh, madam,” said Genevieve, “there is some 
mistake here; you are laboring under a wrong im- 
pression; the Christian names of my parents were 
indeed Walter and Lilian, but their cognomen was 
De Vere.” 

“I have a key to the mystery, my dear child,” de- 
clared Mrs. Bertram, throwing her arms around 
Genevieve. “Your parents lost a son, who was born 
here and who was stolen from this house. They 
searched for him throughout the entire United 
States and then extended their search beyond the 
Atlantic Ocean. I have no doubt but that they 
adopted another name through fear that, if they 


8 4 


GENEVIEVE 


ever came in contact with the abductor of their child, 
that of St. Julian would be recognized and he would 
be placed beyond their reach. You have heard your 
parents speak of their stolen son, — a beautiful baby 
boy?” 

“Yes, madam; he was the great theme of their 
conversation, a topic of which they never wearied. 
I even know from my mother’s accurate descriptions 
what he wore, — a crimson merino dress richly em- 
broidered with black silk, a sacque of the same ma- 
terial and a gold chain to which was suspended a 
medallion similar to this. My mother purchased the 
one I have, thinking it might some day enable me 
to identify my brother. His also contained minia- 
tures of my parents.” 

Mrs. Bertram, excited and overjoyed, sank back 
into a chair. Genevieve knelt before her, with 
clasped hands and with eyes upraised to heaven in 
thanksgiving. Viola approached and knelt beside 
her. She asked: 

u Dear aunt, is Genevieve bound to me by the ties 
of blood? Is there any bond of relationship be- 
tween us? Is she the daughter of my cousin Lilian 
Montrose, of whom I have heard my father speak 
in terms of the warmest admiration?” 

“Yes, she is indeed your second cousin, the daugh- 
ter of Lilian St. Julian, formerly Lilian Montrose, 
who was the only child of your uncle, my elder 
brother, and was bequeathed to me even as you 
were, Viola. Genevieve is a daughter of the noble 
house of Montrose, upon whose escutcheon there 
never rested a single stain.” 

The girls embraced each other tenderly. Old 
Phyllis cried: 


THE REVELATION 


85 


“Jes’ to t’ink, Miss Lilian’s chile been livin’ in 
dis house all dis time an’ yawl neber know’d hit ’till 
ole Phyllis come fur to tell you so. Who ever seed 
de like afore? Yes, honey,” she continued, turning 
to Genevieve, “I use to lub yer mammy and wait on 
her, do’ I wus much older dan her. I use to black 
Mars Walter’s boots and many’s de time I’se cotch 
his hoss. I tell you, Phyllis wus a bunkum ole gal 
in dem days and dem white folks wus pertickerly 
good to her.” 

Mrs. Bertram laughed. “My faithful creature,” 
she said, “you shall have an extra gown for this 
morning’s work and as much coffee and sugar, cake 
and molasses, as you can eat for the next six months.” 

Genevieve cordially shook the faithful old crea- 
ture’s horny hand, and she hobbled off, highly elated, 
to hold forth to the darkeys in the kitchen, her tur- 
ban, made out of a gay bandanna handkerchief, tow- 
ered loftily above her head. Viola, humming a 
merry ditty, ran out into the hall and waltzed down 
its whole length. 

Mrs. Bertram said: “My son, speak to your cou- 
sin Genevieve St. Julian. Congratulate me upon 
having found her.” 

Mr. Bertram, who had been standing in moody 
silence, but who had not taken his eyes off of our 
heroine during the whole scene, replied gloomily: 

“I would to God, my mother, that I had never 
seen her, for she has destroyed the happiness of my 
life.” 

“Genevieve,” commanded Mrs. Bertram, “lay 
aside your foolish scruples and let me join your 
hand with my son’s and give you both my blessing.” 

“Oh, madam,” besought the orphan with tearful 


86 


GENEVIEVE 


eyes, “desist speaking on that subject, I entreat 
you. I would rather die than to become the wife of 
Mr. Bertram while his repudiated wife still lives.” 

“Promise me, then,” said Mr. Bertram, advanc- 
ing to her side while a spasm of agony contracted 
his face, “that you will not force me to become an 
alien from my paternal roof, that you will not leave 
my mother’s fostering care.” 

Mrs. Bertram added her prayer. “In mercy to 
me, Genevieve, do not force my son to become an 
exile from the land of his nativity, to abandon me 
in my declining years when I most need his solacing 
love and his protection.” 

Genevieve hesitated; she could not resist their 
united appeal; she answered feebly: 

“I will remain.” 

“Thank God!” ejaculated Mr. Bertram with a 
sigh of relief. 

He suddenly snatched her hand, pressed it pas- 
sionately to his heart, then released it and walked 
to the opposite side of the room. Genevieve was 
shocked at the great alteration in his appearance. 
He looked pale and thin; his eyes presented the ap- 
pearance of gloomy caverns; his untrimmed hair 
hung negligently down his back; his cheeks were 
hollow and his beard unshaven. Viola returned. 
Mrs. Bertram related a great deal concerning the 
early life of Genevieve’s parents, and our heroine 
in turn recounted all that had occurred in her fath- 
er’s family since she had been old enough to remem- 
ber. The servants outside clamored loudly to see 
“Miss Lilian’s daughter.” When the recital was 
finished Mrs. Bertram led Genevieve to the door and 
presented her to them. Loud were their expressions 


THE REVELATION 87 

of admiration and gratification. Old Clarinda whis- 
pered: 

“Bless you, missus, I know’d dere wus somet’ing 
in yer sweet face dat ’minded me of somebody I 
had seed afore. I know’d hit de night you corned 
here.” 

Viola said gaily: “Genevieve, you are quite a 
heroine to-day, — the observed of all observers. I 
have fallen into an ignominious obscurity.” 

Night came on. The astral lamps of heaven 
shone with a soft, silvery radiance over the gloomy 
valley. The Via Lactea, with its myriads of clus- 
tering nebulae, glowed with dim but unclouded 
splendor. Bright stars of the first magnitude, in the 
meridian of their glory, shone and scintillated bril- 
liantly, and now and then some wandering meteors 
would traverse the blue dome with lightning-like 
velocity and disappear forever from mortal view. 
The members of the Bertram family were as- 
sembled in the sitting-room engaged in various oc- 
cupations when the creaking of the great gate on its 
hinges, as if being opened, and its subsequent clang- 
ing, as if being closed, aroused their atten- 
tion. Presently old Oscar came in, and bowing to 
Mr. Bertram, who had assumed a listening atti- 
tude, said: 

“If you please, Mars, thar be a young man at de 
gate whut be shot in de arm, an’ he be a-beggin’ to 
stay all night.” 

Mr. Bertram arose immediately and commanded 
that the stranger should be ushered into the sitting- 
room and that his wound should receive attention 
as speedily as possible. A few moments later the 
door again opened and Oscar, bowing ceremoniously 


88 


GENEVIEVE 


and waving his hand pompously, introduced the be- 
nighted traveler as : 

“Mr. Fairmont.” 

Mrs. Bertram greeted him courteously, as did her 
son; and the stranger said in an unembarrassed and 
exquisitely modulated voice, addressing himself to 
the latter: 

“I am an artist, sir, by profession, and a resident 
of the city of New York. I came south to spend 
the winter and to enjoy and possibly to portray upon 
canvas some of the beauties of the southern land- 
scape. The Fates guided me to Glenville yesterday 
morning. In the afternoon I rode down into the 
valley, and after I had explored and admired it 
sufficiently and had sketched some charming scenes 
with my pencil I started to retrace my homeward 
steps when my horse became frightened at an old 
woman crouching just outside the gate in the wall, 
whom I took to be one of Macbeth’s witches. He 
snorted, reared and plunged in a fearful manner, 
and finally pitched me over his head. In my fall 
the pistol in my breast pocket was accidentally dis- 
charged, the contents entering my arm and inflicting 
a slight wound.” 

Just then the stranger turned his dark hazel eyes 
to the spot where Viola stood, gazing upon him in 
delight and amazement. 

“Miss Clayborne!” he exclaimed joyfully. “I 
scarcely dared hope that the Fates would be 
so propitious in enabling me to discover your where- 
abouts.” 

He advanced toward the blushing girl ; they shook 
hands cordially and Viola explained to her aunt: 

“Mr. Fairmont was a passenger on board the 


THE REVELATION 


89 


Ocean Queen t the vessel in which I performed my 
voyage from the Old to the New World. He is a 
son of the kind gentleman and lady under whose 
protection I came. Mr. Fairmont, I wish to intro- 
duce you to my aunt, Mrs. Bertram; my cousin, Mr. 
Bertram; my cousin, Miss St. Julian. M 

Mr. Fairmont bowed low and was profuse in his 
expressions of pleasure at forming the acquaintance 
of the party. His wound was soon bathed and 
dressed properly, then they all adjourned to the par- 
lor. 

Viola was in high spirits; her sweet violet eyes 
glowed like dusky stars; the blush-roses deepened 
in her soft cheeks, and a happy smile hovered about 
her piquant, rosebud mouth. The truth was that a 
great friendship had suddenly sprung up between 
Mr. Fairmont and Viola while the Ocean Queen 
slowly breasted the waters of the wide Atlantic; 
that friendship soon began to ripen into something 
deeper and stronger, but about that time their sepa- 
ration occurred, and Viola was borne away to a 
southern home. Mr. Fairmont followed as early as 
possible, determined to avow his love, urge his 
suit and bear his fair English bride to a northern 
clime. Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos spun and wove 
golden threads for him; he found himself in the 
neighborhood of the Bertrams ere he had expected 
it, and, on making inquiries concerning them, learned 
that they were haughty and aristocratic, holding 
themselves aloof from the common herd and refus- 
ing to mingle in society. He therefore determined 
to reconnoitre the mansion that afternoon, and if 
possible to gain an entrance the next day; but his 
accident, happening auspiciously, brought about the 


9 o 


GENEVIEVE 


result which he so much desired, and gave him the 
coveted access to the home of Viola. 

But let us resume the thread of our narrative. 
Mr. Fairmont and Viola sat apart on a divan, en- 
gaged in an animated tete-a-tete, but ever and anon 
the eyes of the former wandered to the beauteous 
face of Genevieve, who occupied a seat on the op- 
posite side of the room near Mrs. Bertram. Viola 
noticed the aberration of his glances, and a strange 
fear crept into her heart, — a wild unrest. She strove 
to banish the unwelcome intruder, but after he once 
gains a foothold in the breast it requires strength 
almost superhuman to expel him. It would be well 
if the demon of jealousy were never permitted to 
darken the threshold of the heart. It would be bet- 
ter if he were annihilated, — crushed forever out of 
existence, — the light of his green eyes darkened and 
the fires of his fierce bosom quenched by the nobler 
emotions of love and trust. 

Genevieve was looking unusually lovely. 

“Her cheek had the pale pearly pink 
Of sea-shells, the world’s sweetest tint, as though 
She lived, one half might deem, on roses dipped 
In silver dew.” 

Her beautiful eyes drooped before the admiring 
glances of the young stranger. Viola became re- 
served and seemed to retire as if behind a cloud. 
Mr. Fairmont said: 

“Your cousin is the most beautiful lady I ever 
beheld, Miss Clayborne. Earth holds no comelier 
form, no fairer face than hers.” 

He arose from his seat, approached and opened 
the grand piano, then crossed over to Genevieve 


THE REVELATION 


91 


and besought permission to lead her thither. She 
sat down and played solemn, stately airs from Mo- 
zart and Beethoven. She could not trust herself to 
sing. 

“Delightful melodies,” murmured Mr. Fairmont, 
“and the fairest musician among all the daughters 
of earth.” 

This was accompanied by a glance of “sheathed 
lightning,” which was met by her “armor of 
sweet dignity.” Mr. Bertram groaned inaudibly; he 
saw before him a formidable rival, — a young man 
with a handsome, ingenuous face, — a young man full 
of noble aspirations, gifted with fine conversational 
powers, one whom no woman could regard with in- 
difference. His demeanor was icy in the extreme, — 
as cold as Hecla’s snows, — but within his bosom 
there raged a volcano as fierce as Vesuvius. 


CHAPTER VII 


THE SPECTRE 

“Ghosts that tread with noiseless footsteps, 

Gaze around with mournful eyes, 

Clutch our hands with bony fingers, 

Fill our souls with tears and sighs.” 

Helen, I love thee; by my life, I do. 

I swear by that which I will lose for thee, 

To prove him false that says I love thee not. 

— Shakespeare . 

The next morning Mr. Fairmont played the in- 
teresting invalid to perfection. He lounged upon 
a sofa in the sitting-room while Viola crocheted and 
Genevieve sat at her embroidery. Mrs. Bertram 
was absent during the greater portion of the morn- 
ing, superintending her domestic affairs. Mr. Ber- 
tram rode out early, but soon returned and joined 
the party in the sitting-room. His eye was ever upon 
Genevieve, though unobserved by her; he regarded 
her as the most beautiful of evanescent beings, the 
most desirable of all the women in the world for 
a wife. He watched the fluctuating color upon her 
cheeks, the flitting lights and shadows in her brown 
eyes. He longed with a wild, strange, inexpressible 
longing to claim her as his own, but he feared the 
92 


THE SPECTRE 


93 


power of this new actor upon the theatre of their 
everyday life. Genevieve was young; her nature, 
he thought, was as wax, easy to receive and to retain 
an impression. He knew that there was a second 
springtime to the heart, for he had experienced it. 
Might she not, theh, love again? How dared he 
hope that she would give up all matrimonial expec- 
tations, relinquish all ideas of conjugal happiness for 
his sake? The dove of peace lay with drooping 
wings in his heart; the star of hope seemed about 
to fade forever from his mental horizon. Great 
billowy clouds piled themselves up as mountains of 
darkness, obscuring all that was bright and lovely 
and radiant. 

Mr. Fairmont and Viola discoursed in a lively 
manner of the gayeties of the metropolitan city of 
England, of the gorgeous sunrises and sunsets upon 
the briny ocean, of the great sea-gulls that occasion- 
ally darted over the vessel, screaming and flapping 
their wings, of the gloomy clouds and fierce gusts of 
wind that sometimes betokened an equinoctial storm, 
of the soft breezes that oftener stirred the bosom of 
the great deep. But the gentleman, as on the previ- 
ous night, seemed much interested in the silent, black- 
robed figure sitting nqar the corner of the hearth, 
upon which blazed the cheerful fire. Presently the 
door was pushed slightly ajar and Pinky thrust her 
head within the room and said: 

“Miss Jinnybeeb, Maum Phyllis wants you.” 

Genevieve arose and with her usual elegance 
walked to the door. After she had disappeared Mr. 
Fairmont, who had followed her with his eyes as 
far as she could be seen, remarked: 

“Lord Byron was the only man that ever gave us 


94 


GENEVIEVE 


an accurate description of such beauties as have 
fallen to Miss St. Julian’s share.” 

“Pray,” said Viola, “what does Lord Byron have 
to say?” 

He softly repeated: 

“ ‘She walks in beauty like the night. 

Of cloudless climes and starry skies, 

And all that’s best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes, 

Thus mellowed to that tender light, 

Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

“ ‘One shade the more, one ray the less, 

Had half impaired the nameless grace, 

That waves in every auburn tress, 

Or softly lightens o’er her face, 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

“ ‘And on that cheek and o’er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 

The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 

A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent.’ ” 

“You perceive, Miss Clayborne, I took the liberty 
of changing the fifth word of the third line of the 
second verse from raven to auburn, Miss St. Julian’s 
hair being of the latter hue.” 

Genevieve retired early to bed that night, leaving 
the door of her chamber unlocked to admit the faith- 
ful Pinky, who was absent from the house attending 
a merry Christmas frolic at the “quarter,” — so 
called by the Bertram negroes. She came in about 
ten o’clock and was requested to lock the door. The 
sleepy girl fumbled first with the knob, then with 
the key, in reality locking and then unlocking the 


THE SPECTRE 


95 


door. A few moments later she fell down upon her 
comfortable straw mattress, carefully covered up her 
head, which a negro never leaves exposed, no matter 
how sultry the night, and slept like a log until morn- 
ing. The booming of cannon, the thunders of artil- 
lery, the startling call of the trumpet, would scarcely 
have aroused her. 

Genevieve was awakened about midnight by a 
strange, wild, solemn sound. She half unclosed her 
eyes, but before she did so was fully conscious of 
the close proximity of that awful presence she had 
beheld on the night of her arrival at Castle Gloom. 
A dim, supernatural light pervaded the room; a 
ghostly form was bending over her; a pallid face, — 
framed in flowing, silvery hair and lighted by a pair 
of restless, gleaming eyes, — looked down upon her. 
The ghastly creature was clad in the white vestments 
of the grave; one slender hand held a small lighted 
marble lamp; the other a gleaming dagger with a 
glittering hilt. 

From the strangely thin, bloodless lips issued 
a mournful chant, something similar to the wail of 
the Indian women over their fallen braves. Gene- 
vieve would have shrieked aloud, but no sound pro- 
ceeded from her ashen lips; she would have sprung 
from bed and summoned assistance, or fled wildly 
from the haunted room, but she was powerless to 
move. The pale ghost ceased her solemn chant and 
muttered: 

“Revenge, revenge, revenge! O God, I would 
blot this young girl out of existence, would extinguish 
the light of her life in sudden, endless night, but that 
an invisible hand stays the dagger, an invisible 
power forbids the deed, and I must wait, wait, wait 


9 6 


GENEVIEVE 


until I gain courage to defy that power, to inflict the 
blow.” 

She placed the lamp upon the snowy coverlid, 
shifted the dagger from the left to the right hand, 
then raised it as if about to strike the defenceless 
maiden, but suddenly changed her mind, picked up 
the lamp, moved slowly and cautiously to the door, 
opened it noiselessly and disappeared. Genevieve, 
relieved from the frightful helplessness, sprang out 
of bed, closed and locked the door, then, her 
strength again deserting her, sank upon the floor, 
where she remained during the rest of that cold, 
dreary winter night in a state of complete prostra- 
tion. Never before did the wheels of time revolve 
more slowly, — never was his chariot longer in com- 
pleting its quarter-circle. When the orphan recov- 
ered her power of motion the morning sun was fall- 
ing in slanting rays between the bars of the Venetian 
blinds, illuminating the dark chamber and dispelling 
the gloomy shadows of the previous night. She 
arose, almost benumbed, bathed her face, attired 
herself, aroused the sleeping negress and slowly and 
wearily descended to the breakfast-room where the 
family was already assembled. She was completely 
dispirited; her health was failing, was being crushed 
by the Juggernaut of pride, the horrible incubus of 
fear. 

“Why, Genevieve,” said Viola, “you look like a 
wandering spirit from the Mournful Fields.” 

Mr. Fairmont also rallied her upon her dejected 
appearance. He inquired playfully whether she had 
seen the “ghost of Banquo” or the “ghost of Ham- 
let’s father.” Genevieve, out of regard for Mrs. 
Bertram, preserved silence concerning the appari- 


THE SPECTRE 


97 


tion that she had in reality beheld; and she endeav- 
ored to change the subject. She half believed that 
she had seen Stella Lorraine in disguise. 

Days had ripened into weeks, halcyon days to 
Victor Fairmont. A fortnight had passed, and still 
he lingered at the home of the Bertrams, charmed 
with the beauty and the accomplishments of Gene- 
vieve, entirely forgetful of his former love for 
Viola, and reluctant to leave without the hope of 
being permitted to return again. Our heroine was 
equally well pleased with him, though in a different 
way. She had at first studiously avoided him, treat- 
ing his attentions with the utmost coolness and in- 
difference, but gradually her reserve melted under 
his genial smiles, she yielded to the influence of his 
habitually affable manners and entertaining conver- 
sation and finally came to regard him as one very 
dear to her. 

Viola became as frigid as an iceberg in the Arctic 
Ocean. The embryonic friendship that was spring- 
ing up between her and Genevieve seemed about to 
wither and perish like the premature blossoms of 
spring or the tender bud plucked from its parent 
stalk by some ruthless hand, then neglected and left 
to breathe out its dying perfume, lonely and unap- 
preciated. Viola carefully shunned the society of 
both Mr. Fairmont and Genevieve, and, naturally 
enough, was thrown a great deal with Mr. Bertram, 
who, strangely for a good student of human nature 
like he was, misconstrued her motives and believed 
that she was manifesting a preference for himself. 
He was not a vain man, however, and took little 
pains to make himself agreeable or to excite hopes 
in her bosom which could never be realized. Gene- 


98 


GENEVIEVE 


vieve was impressed with the belief that Viola was 
partial to Mr. Bertram; she remembered her con- 
versation on that fatal morning when Stella Lorraine 
appeared like an evil genius, blighting everything 
that was hopeful and joyous in her nature. She at- 
tributed the change in her friend’s conduct to the 
probability of her having discovered by some means 
Mr. Bertram’s predilection for herself. She knew 
Viola to be impulsive and feared that she was not 
above being tyrannized over by the grim despot, 
jealousy. Genevieve was naturally formal and re- 
served; she would not force herself upon Viola’s 
confidence. The result was that the girls rapidly 
became alienated from each other. 

Mrs. Bertram observed the conduct of Viola with 
pleasure; she believed that the innocent, confiding 
girl was endeavoring to ingratiate herself in her 
cousin’s favor and felt confident that he could not 
withstand such sweet simplicity and trust. Mr. Fair- 
mont alone had a vague, undefined consciousness of 
the truth, but he was under the influence of a witch- 
ery which he could not resist; and if his conscience 
smote him, he buried the sting in his own bosom. 
Everybody plays at cross purposes on this mundane 
globe and our friends were not exceptions to the gen- 
eral rule. Viola guarded her secret as carefully as 
the dragon guarded the golden apples in the Hesper- 
ian gardens. 

On a clear, cold, crispy evening in the beginning 
of the third week in January Genevieve strolled out 
into the grounds and was immediately joined by 
Mr. Fairmont, who suffered not a footfall of hers to 
escape his notice. The sun had hung his flaming 
banner in the west; the earth was in a deep and 


THE SPECTRE 


99 


hushed repose; the dead lichens clung to the stately 
walls of the gloomy old mansion; a thin blue smoke 
curled indolently up from several of the arched 
chimneys toward the blue canopy which was rapidly 
being bespangled with stars. Pigeons cooed softly 
and circled around their diminutive abodes, while 
the naked branches of the grand old trees stretched 
out, like skeleton arms, to embrace the building. 

Mr. Bertram entered the deserted parlor, which 
was situated just across the hall and opposite the 
library. Perceiving no one, he stepped out into the 
veranda corresponding to the one that adjoined the 
library, descended the steps half way, and sat down. 
Viola, coming in a little later, approached the win- 
dow, and seeing her cousin, went out and seated her- 
self beside him. After a short interval the strollers 
also came in and sat down near the window, but not 
where they could have a view of the silent pair upon 
the steps. Mr. Fairmont said: 

“Genevieve, my recovery is complete. I must 
soon take my departure. The golden hours must 
cease to fly away so swiftly on rosy winglets, but, 
oh!” and his voice sank to a mellow cadence, “per- 
mit me to return ere long to bask in the sunlight of 
your presence, to listen to the mellifluous tones of 
your voice, to live over again these glorious days. 
Speak, Genevieve, say that you love me, — that you 
will reward my devoted affection by bestowing upon 
me your dear hand.” 

He paused for a reply, but there was none; the 
little head was bowed upon the dimpled hands and 
he could not read her countenance. He continued : 

“I have sometimes feared that your heart was 
already won by that dark-browed Othello-like 


IOO 


GENEVIEVE 


cousin of yours, who watches me with such gloomy, 
jealous eyes, but your actions do not indicate a re- 
turn of the affection which I am sure he cherishes 
for you. Tell me, dear Genevieve, that you love 
me, that you will bestow upon me that most inesti- 
mable of blessings, your hand. Promise that I shall 
rescue you, my pale bird of beauty, from this 
gloomy prison, that I may bear you to a more con- 
genial home where you shall reign as queen of my 
love and idol of my heart.” 

Two pair of eager ears upon the steps were 
strained to catch the answer; it came at length, low 
but distinct. 

“I love you, Victor ” 

Mr. Bertram waited to hear no more; he stepped 
lightly to the ground and walked away beneath the 
starlit sky. Viola noiselessly followed him. Mr. 
Bertram would have scorned to play the eaves- 
dropper, but a fascination had chained him to the 
spot; he seemed to know that the interview between 
the pair was fraught with the deepest interest to 
himself. Viola was controlled altogether by the ac- 
tions of her cousin; if he had departed before she 
would have done so, but she disliked to attract at- 
tention to herself by leaving him alone. When they 
were some distance from the parlor window he 
turned abruptly and said: 

“Viola, it is the ardent wish of my mother that 
we should be united. She has been a kind mother to 
me; she nursed me through the perils of infancy 
when my life quivered in the balance for many days, 
— and months. She guided and instructed me in the 
days of my youth; she has been the friend and com- 
panion of my maturer years. Never once has she 


THE SPECTRE 


iox 


administered to me a harsh rebuke, I love and 
revere her, — I do not wish to disappoint her hopes. 
You may not be aware that I loved Genevieve and 
offered her my hand, but she refused me because I 
had a divorced wife living. Knowing this, Viola, 
can you consent to marry me in order to gratify my 
mother ?” 

Viola did not answer immediately; she reflected 
and her reflections ran thus : 

u My cousin loves Genevieve, and she loves Victor 
Fairmont. I love Victor Fairmont and he loves 
Genevieve. The case is hopeless for my cousin and 
myself. Why should I not marry him to please my 
aunt, who is the only friend I have? Why let the 
worm in the bud feed on my damask cheek? Why 
pine away and, with a green and yellow melancholy, 
sit like patience on a monument, smiling at grief? 
Why not be the mistress of this lordly domain and 
the honored wife of Vivian Bertram?” 

She replied: 

u This is a strange love-making, cousin Vivian, 
but I have no complaints to make, no objections to 
offer. I will be your wife.” 

u The compact is sealed,” he muttered, with 
blanched lips; then he walked away and entered the 
house. 

It was indeed a strange love-making, — no kiss of 
betrothal, no expressions of endearment, no look of 
pride. 

Viola wearily sought the solitude of her own 
apartment and gave vent to many and bitter tears 
and sobs. 

Had they but lingered on the veranda steps a 
few moments longer the burden of each heart might 


102 


GENEVIEVE 


have been lightened and that mockery of a troth- 
plight would never have been enacted. 

Genevieve had said, “I love you, Victor,” and 
they had heard no more. Had they not fled so 
precipitately they would have heard the remainder 
of the sentence which was as follows: “but not as 
a woman should love the man who is to become the 
arbiter ot Her destiny. I love you as an affectionate 
sister would love a fond and worthy brother, or as 
one loves the stars, the birds, the flowers, the mur- 
muring brooks or the glad blue sky. It is a quiet, 
passionless love, one that pervades my bosom but 
gives it no pain.” 

Victor was disappointed. He said sadly: 

“Take time to consider. In a few weeks or 
months your answer might be entirely the reverse of 
what it is now.” 

“No,” replied Genevieve, “it is final and you will 
not long regret it. When you came here I believed 
that you loved Viola, — I am not convinced yet that 
you do not.” 

“I did love her,” acknowledged Mr. Fairmont, 
“but you bewitched me, you cast a spell over me 
that was irresistible, and now you have disappointed 
my brightest expectations. Well, hope is but a 
gaudy-winged butterfly, sipping the sweets from 
every life, then vanishing like the ephemeral beauty 
of a summer day. But, dear Genevieve, I will not 
repine. There is a silver lining to every cloud. 
There must be one to this, though I cannot see it 
now. Be to me as a dear friend, a gentle sister, and 
wear this ring in token of the friendship which is to 
usurp the place of love.” 

He drew from his pocket a paper containing a 


THE SPECTRE 


103 


golden circlet set with a cluster of diamonds in the 
shape of a heart and slipped it upon her finger. 
Genevieve drew it off, declining to receive it, and 
declaring it to be too costly a gift. But he urged 
her to retain it in her possession as an offering 
prompted altogether by friendly regard, as he en- 
tertained no hopes of her ever returning his love. 
She was at length persuaded to do so, and soon 
afterward she retired. The next morning the ring 
with its spray of sparkling stones was noticed by 
everyone present, but no comment was made. Every- 
body except the two most intimately concerned be- 
lieved it to be a pledge of betrothal. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE WITCH OF THE BLACK TARN 

I spied a withered hag with age grown double, 

Picking dry sticks and mumbling to herself ; 

Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall’d and red, 
Cold palsy shook her head, her hands seem’d wither’d, 
And on her crooked shoulders had she wrapt 
The tatter’d remnants of an old striped hanging, 

Which served to keep her carcass from the cold. 

— Otway’s Orphan. 

Well — peace to thy heart, though another’s it be, 

And health to thy cheek, though it bloom not for me. 

— Moore. 


Suffering refines and purifies. “Times of general 
calamity and confusion have ever been productive of 
the greatest minds. The finest ore is produced from 
the hottest furnace and the brightest thunderbolt is 
elicited from the darkest storm.” So Genevieve came 
forth from the ordeal of sorrow through which she 
had passed better, wiser and lovelier. She did not re- 
pine at the dispensations of Providence. She was one 
of those few who bear their trials meekly, believing 
it best to murmur at nothing. Her ills were irre- 
mediable, her losses, irreparable; therefore it was 
useless to complain. 

Victor Fairmont was an even-tempered indi- 

104 


WITCH OF THE BLACK TARN 105 


vidual; his spirits never soared to the giddy heights 
of joy nor sank into the gloomy depths of despair. 
Genevieve’s rejection of his suit disappointed but 
did not agonize him ; he slept as sweetly a few hours 
afterward as if no cloud of care had ever rested 
upon his brow. When he met Genevieve again he 
greeted her kindly and cheerfully, refraining from 
appearing gloomy, through fear of saddening her 
gentle heart. Being convinced fully that she was 
lost forever to him, his affections began to be trans- 
ferred, or rather, restored, to Viola. He remem- 
bered with pleasure all her artless, winning ways, 
and sighed that the golden chain of love which 
once united them had been severed, and by his own 
hand. In the cold, proud girl of the present he could 
scarcely recognize the sunny-faced maiden of the 
past. On the afternoon of the day previous to his 
departure from the Vale of Gloom he solicited the 
company of the two girls in a ramble through the 
woods, the temperature of the air being quite pleas- 
ant for that time of the year. 

They strolled through the forest, a-down the glen, 
clambered over the hills and finally came to a dis- 
mal pool of inky blackness situated in a ravine at 
the base of the hill, in rear of the mansion and on 
an unfrequented road. The place was wild and 
dreary in the extreme; not a dwelling, not a vestige 
of human life, was visible until they suddenly turned 
an angle of woods just beyond the pool. There they 
came upon an old, wrinkled, withered woman, of 
forbidding aspect, who was gathering twigs in front 
of a wretched hovel, to replenish a fire which was 
burning upon the earth and over which was sus- 
pended a huge caldron. The little party slowly ap- 


io6 


GENEVIEVE 


proached, Genevieve and Viola involuntarily draw- 
ing nearer to each other. Viola said in an under- 
tone: 

“This must be the witch of whom Chloe has 
told me. My gracious! what a horrible creature 1” 

Mr. Fairmont answered : 

“It is the same old beldam who was crouching 
without the gate and frightened my horse so badly 
on the night of my introduction to Castle Gloom.” 

They were now within a few feet of the miser- 
able old crone who was dressed in rags and tatters 
of a scarlet hue. She raised one of her long skinny 
hands and waved them back while her fierce eyes 
gleamed with a wicked, wolfish light. She cried in 
a shrill, cracked voice : 

“Begone! will ye? What brings ye to the cabin 
of old Guatavita. Why do ye prowl around like 
panthers when she never did ye any harm?” 

“My good mother,” said Mr. Fairmont in a 
conciliating manner, “we had no intention whatever 
of intruding upon your premises. We are merely a 
party of pleasure seekers, out upon a ramble.” 

“Then seek pleasure where you may find it. There 
is none here unless it is to be found beneath the 
black, slimy ooze of yonder pond.” 

Viola whispered: 

“Chloe declares she is a fortune-teller. Induce 
her to tell our fortunes.” 

“Good woman,” persuaded Mr. Fairmont, “we 
have heard of your power as a seeress. Permit me 
to cross your palm with silver and then unveil to 
these fair ladies the dread arcana of the future.” 

“Begone,” howled the terrible hag. “Or, stay! 


WITCH OF THE BLACK TARN 107 


Tell me which of yonder white- faced fools is Gene- 
vieve De Vere.” 

“Neither!” emphatically affirmed Mr. Fairmont, 
who was well acquainted with the history of Gene- 
vieve’s past, but did not care to enlighten the old 
woman. 

“Then go, and my curses go with ye.” 

Mr. Fairmont had observed an eager, lurid gleam 
leap into her fierce eyes as she had put the question 
to him, and he feared that Genevieve had an enemy 
in her. They slowly retraced their steps, the witch 
watching them until they disappeared into the ravine 
that held the pool. Mr. Fairmont said: 

“That old creature may be an emissary of his Sa- 
tanic Majesty. At any rate, I believe that she is 
leagued in some way with the fiends of darkness.” 

Genevieve shuddered. 

“I regard her curiosity to know me as an omen of 
evil. I cannot conceive why she should have been 
lurking about the walls of Castle Gloom last Christ- 
mas night. There is some mystery here which I 
cannot solve, — a problem that I cannot elucidate.” 

“Do not be alarmed, Genevieve; she can do you 
no injury at home, and you need never cross her 
path again,” replied Victor tenderly. 

“We had quite an adventure to-day, aunt,” said 
Viola at the supper table. “We encountered a per- 
fect old Witch of Endor in our rambles, and she 
frightened Genevieve by appearing curious to know 
which of us was she.” 

Mrs. Bertram laughed and replied: 

“I dare say you allude to the old fortune-teller 


io8 


GENEVIEVE 


of the Black Tarn. I have heard the servants speak 
of her frequently.” 

Mr. Bertram looked anxiously at Genevieve and 
saw that she was pale and agitated. He said coldly: 

“I should think there would be little in the ap- 
pearance of such an imbecile old creature to alarm 
even the most timid. She doubtless heard Gene- 
vieve’s name from some of the servants and was 
prompted merely by a feeling of curiosity to dis- 
cover which of the two was she.” 

Mr. Fairmont, who had noticed our heroine’s 
trepidation, rejoined : 

“My dear sir, she is no imbecile; but I agree with 
you in supposing that she may have been altogether 
actuated by curiosity.” 

The next morning Mr. Fairmont came down- 
stairs prepared for his journey. He thanked Mrs. 
Bertram and her son in a delicate and appropriate 
manner and with much grace for their generous hos- 
pitality, their unvarying courtesy. Then he bade a 
kind adieu to Viola, and turning to Genevieve, 
laughingly solicited: 

“Miss St. Julian, I entreat, as a parting favor, 
that you will, with your aunt’s permission, accom- 
pany me as far as the gate.” 

Mrs. Bertram, esteeming and admiring the young 
man, and believing the pair to be affianced, nodded 
an acquiescence. Mr. Fairmont picked up a shawl 
lying upon one of the hall chairs, carefully wrapped 
it around Genevieve, and bade her come with him. 
She placed her jaunty little black beaver with its 
drooping feathers upon her clustering curls and 
walked down the broad sanded semi-circular walk 
by his side. The trio upon the steps watched them 


WITCH OF THE BLACK TARN 109 


until the shrubbery hid them from view. Mr. Fair- 
mont said : 

“Genevieve, I wished to have a few moments 
private conversation with you before my departure 
to assure you of my undiminished regard for your- 
self and my unabated interest in your welfare. 
Henceforth, you shall be to me as a sweet sister; your 
memory shall reign in my bosom and enable me to 
beguile many weary hours. Whether my path be 
adorned with roses, or strewn with thorns, whether 
angels hover around me, or hissing serpents thrust 
out their fiery forked tongues on all sides, I shall 
never regret having loved you. That love has ele- 
vated, has ennobled me; in my wanderings sweet 
dreams of the blissful days that I have passed in 
your society will come to gladden my heart, to buoy 
my spirit and to banish despondency.” 

He clasped her hand tenderly as he spoke and 
looked earnestly into her brown eyes so full of fleet- 
ing shadows. 

“Thank you, Victor, for this proof of your friend- 
ship. I would willingly, gladly, thankfully have loved 
you, but,” and she blushed and stammered, “ere 
I saw you my heart was given to another.” 

“Dear Genevieve,” he cried, “is it possible then 
that you do love Mr. Bertram?” 

“I have loved him,” she murmured, with a soul-lit 
glance; “would love him still, but that I believe it 
to be a crime.” 

“A crime! A crime to love Vivian Bertram, the 
flower of chivalry, the pearl of honor! A crime 
to love a noble and high-souled gentleman! Why, 
Genevieve, you are laboring under a strange halluci- 
nation, or I should say a fantasy of the brain, a 


no GENEVIEVE 

chimera of the imagination. What can you pos- 
sibly mean?” 

u Simply this, he has a repudiated wife living.” 

“My God!” he exclaimed, recoiling in horror. 
u You astound me. I never dreamed of such a thing, 
but be firm in your resolution, — firm as a rock, — 
immovable as the throne of God. It would be com- 
mitting a heinous sin to marry him. I have always 
had a perfect horror of divorces and divorced peo- 
ple. Promise me, Genevieve, that you will not al- 
low yourself to be overpersuaded to do so dreadful 
a thing.” 

“Never,” she answered firmly; “they will not 
attempt to influence me. Mr. Bertram will not impor- 
tune me; he has promised never to mention the sub- 
ject.” 

Mr. Fairmont raised her hand to his lips in a 
silent farewell. 

“You will come back sometime?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he replied softly, then he mounted his 
horse and rode rapidly away. 

Genevieve slowly returned to the house. There 
was a void in her heart; she could not account for 
the deep interest which she had taken in the stranger, 
for the affection she bore him. It was inexplicable 
to her. She softly repeated: 

“We clasp our hands; we turn and go, 

Our footsteps echoing years between; 

We meet again ; we hardly know, 

These ghosts of loved ones long unseen. 

“We clasp our hands, we turn and go, 

Far travelers with strange hours and years; 

The face, the form, the voice, we know, 

They come not back from time and tears. 


WITCH OF THE BLACK TARN hi 


“We clasp our hands in loving trust; 
We send our voices o’er the wave. 
No hand, can reach us from the dust; 
No voice can find us in the grave.” 


CHAPTER IX 


THE EXPLANATION 

It is a fearful thing 

To love as I love thee; to feel the world 
A blank without thee. 

— Miss London. 

“But stranger than all, that man should die 
When his plans are formed and his hopes are high.” 

Weary days passed. Leaden-hued clouds hung 
over the gloomy dwelling, — wintry blasts howled 
around it. The orphan’s heart was sad and deso- 
late. Mrs. Bertram seemed to be the only friend she 
had in the world. Viola spent most of her time in 
her own apartment. Mr. Bertram had become a 
gloomy misanthrope, shutting himself up in the li- 
brary, secluding himself as much as' possible, and 
never addressing Genevieve nor paying her the 
least attention. Still the girl’s heart clung to the 
old mansion, — precious memories clustered around 
it and, although she had been informed of the en- 
gagement existing between Mr. Bertram and Viola 
and knew that it would be best for her to leave, yet 
she could scarcely bear the idea of tearing herself 
away. The place was endeared to her by a thou- 
sand holy associations; she remembered every look 
112 


THE EXPLANATION 


113 

and tone and gesture of Mr. Bertram’s; she loved 
him more than ever; her cup of misery was full to 
the brim, was overflowing; her heart longed inex- 
pressibly for love and sympathy. She said to Viola 
one day: 

“What have I done, dear friend, to merit 
your dislike? Why do you avoid me, and when by 
chance we meet cast upon me such icy glances? 
Why do you sometimes force an unnatural gayety 
and then again sink into the dismal abysm of sor- 
row? Oh, Viola, we are indeed becoming like the 
Theban pair! Can you not trust me? Will you 
not confide in me? If I can do anything to lighten 
your burden, to cheer your spirit, to restore to you 
your former cheerfulness, how gladly will I make 
the effort.” 

Viola burst into tears and replied: 

“Is it not enough, Genevieve, that you have stolen 
from me the affections of the only man I can ever 
love? Will not that suffice without reminding me 
of my unhappy appearance?” 

Genevieve would have answered, supposing her 
to have alluded to Mr. Bertram, but Viola left the 
room and gave her no opportunity. 

She arose, slowly descended the stairs and walked 
out into the approaching twilight. For an hour she 
paced up and down the walk, her heart full of a 
dreary unrest, her mind possessed by wild and bitter 
fancies, her soul yearning for peace, if not in a 
terrestrial world, in one celestial. Oh, how gladly 
would she have relinquished all hopes of earthly 
happiness for a home among the “just made per- 
fect” ! She felt that death would be to her but a 
transition from this life to a higher and nobler 


GENEVIEVE 


114 

state of existence. What were the pomps and 
vanities of this world to the immortal joys of the 
other? What the smiles of the perishing children 
of earth to the ineffable love that beams in the 
Saviour’s countenance? Gradually a calmness stole 
over her, and, though her spirit would gladly have 
broken its fetters, effected its release from a temple 
of clay, and soared upward to join the angelic 
throng who were beholding the glories around the 
throne, she felt a resignation to the will of her 
Father which for some time had been a stranger 
to her bosom. 

Her musings were suddenly interrupted by the 
appearance of a gleam of light which seemed to 
proceed from one of the diminutive windows in the 
lofty west tower of the building. Upon a close 
observation she discovered that it fell through a 
broken bar of one of the blinds. 

The orphan felt anxious and uneasy; she feared 
some incendiary had gained access to the house and 
that it would soon be wrapped in flames. At that 
moment Mr. Bertram came to the door and looked 
out upon the night. She said timidly: 

“Mr. Bertram, there is a light of some descrip- 
tion in the west tower.” 

He came down the steps and turned his eyes 
in the direction indicated. There it was, a feeble, 
flickering, dim, supernatural light falling through a 
crevice out into the gloom. He said coldly: 

“Return to the house, Genevieve, and I will in- 
vestigate the matter.” Just then his eye rested upon 
the diamond ring which encircled her finger, and he 
&dded: “There, too, is a light; explain it to me ? 


THE EXPLANATION 115 

Ah, Genevieve, I hardly thought you could so soon 
forget.” 

“I have forgotten nothing,” replied our heroine 
proudly. 

“You consider my love nothing, then; or a mere 
toy to be cast away at pleasure? You could not wait 
a few months or years to see if heaven would not 
remove that creature, from my path?” 

“Mr. Bertram fails to remember that he is speak- 
ing upon a forbidden subject, but what matters it 
since his troth is plighted to another. It is quite 
time that I should be relieved from my unwise 
promise and be permittted to depart hence, for 
my presence cannot much longer be welcome.” 

“Mention it not,” he exclaimed bitterly. “I once 
loved Viola as a cousin — a sister; I almost hate 
her now. But for my mother’s entreaties, but for 
your act which drove me to desperation, that miser- 
able farce of a betrothal would never have taken 
place.” 

Genevieve, supposing him to have referred to her 
rejection of his suit, answered haughtily and with 
a smile of sarcasm: 

“Who would have imagined Mr. Bertram to be 
as fitful as an April day, as capricious as a coquet- 
tish damsel, first offering himself to Genevieve, 
then, because she could not wed him in opposition 
to her principles, going straight and without loss of 
time to bow the knee in homage to Viola, comfort- 
ing himself with her promise to become his wife.” 

“By heaven, Genevieve!” he retorted wildly, 
“you purposely misinterpret my meaning. You 
know and God knows that you goaded me to mad- 


n 6 GENEVIEVE 

ness by acknowledging your love for Victor Fair- 
mont.” 

A light dawned upon the maiden’s soul. Mr. 
Bertram had believed all this time that she was 
pledged to another, had regarded the ring as a 
token of love — of Victor Fairmont’s love. In a 
frenzy of jealousy he had revenged himself upon 
her by addressing Viola. The discovery over- 
powered her, she sank down upon the cold stone 
steps, and tears welled up into her eyes. Miscon- 
struing her emotion, he cried out in tones of agony : 

“My God, Genevieve, how you must love him 
when even the mere mention of his name affects you 
so!” 

Our heroine was distressed beyond measure, 
her heart melted within her at sight of his anguish. 
She murmured in tremulous accents : 

“Oh, sir, if I had but been aware of your mis- 
take, if I had only known that you were laboring 
under a wrong impression, how much unhappiness 
I might have saved you, for indeed I am not af- 
fianced to Victor Fairmont. I am not his promised 
wife. I do not even love him, and this ring is but 
a gift of friendship. You cannot comprehend the 
height nor depth nor length nor breadth of a 
woman’s love, if you could for a moment suppose 
her to be so changeable, so forgetful.” 

“Genevieve, for the love of heaven, do not trifle 
with me, do not attempt to deceive me. Must I 
disbelieve the evidence of my own ears? Did I not 
hear you say, ‘I love you, Victor,’ as I sat upon 
the veranda steps the night that he poured forth 
his eloquent tale of devotion? Did not those words 
craze my brain, drive me away in despair, blind my 


THE EXPLANATION 


117 

judgment, and in a moment of insanity cause me to 
offer my hand to Viola?” 

This was another revelation to Genevieve,-— a 
mirror of the past few weeks. She saw everything 
clearly, and replied : 

“If you had but listened a moment longer you 
would have heard the termination of the sentence. 
I told him that I loved him, but not as a wife should 
love her husband, only as a sister could love a 
brother.” 

Mr. Bertram sank down upon his knees before 
her, clasped her hand in his, and reverently carried 
it to his lips. In a voice full of conflicting emotions 
he prayed for pardon. 

“Genevieve, my darling, forgive me for doubting 
your truth, your sincerity, your devotion, — for 
tying myself to one whom I do not — whom I never 
can — love. Let me go to Viola, let me tell her of 
my love for you, so wild, so deep, so strong. She 
will give me back my freedom and then you will 
become my wife. Speak, Genevieve; let not Stella 
Lorraine, the miscreant, the traitress, the fiend, keep 
you from the arms which long to enfold you in a 
fervent embrace. Let not her machinations prevent 
you from being sheltered near a heart which loves 
you fondly; upon whose red leaves no name save 
yours is traced; whose every pulsation is full of af- 
fection for you. Answer me, my darling, my life; 
my love for you has become an idolatry. I cannot 
live without you. Speak, Genevieve, and end this 
terrible suspense.” 

The orphan raised her streaming eyes to heaven. 
She yearned to glide into his outstretched arms, to 
pillow her aching head upon his bosom, but the love 


1 1 8 


GENEVIEVE 


of right, the sense of duty, was strong in her breast. 
Mr. Bertram saw her mute appeal by the sickly light 
of the pale winter moon, which struggled to pene- 
trate the shifting masses of clouds overhead. He 
thought she was wavering in her determination; a 
gleam of hope shot up into his soul; his eyes glowed 
with an eager light. Again he besought: 

“Come to me, dearest; rest you cheek upon my 
heart, feel its mighty throbbings; it would rend my 
bosom to find a place at your feet. Forget Stella 
Lorraine, be my wife, — my adored, my cherished 
wife.” 

“Never!” cried Genevieve passionately. “Her 
memory has burned itself into my brain, searing it 
like a fierce fire. It has become as a canker to my 
heart, destroying all that is peaceful within me. Let 
me go, Mr. Bertram, let me leave this place forever. 
Our paths in life must diverge sooner or later. Let 
it be now. I will pursue mine, whether smooth or 
thorny, to the end. You must do likewise. There 
is peace in the grave, there is joy beyond the stars, 
in that sun-bright land where Jesus rules and reigns, 
where pealing anthems swell in praise to Him, where 
grief and parting are unknown.” 

He still knelt before her, her hand imprisoned 
in his grasp. Genevieve raised her eyes to the 
tower, but there all was dark — dark as her own life. 
The mysterious light had vanished. She scanned 
the heavens, but there was no rift in the clouds. 
She snatched her hand away from the kneeling man, 
and sped into the house, praying that temptation 
might be removed far from her. 

“Oh, my Father,” she implored, “let not the fierce 
flame of love extinguish the sense of duty within 


THE: EXPLANATION 


119 


me; let not remorse stand hereafter, like a gloomy 
sentinel, over the ashen heap beneath which reposes 
a dead conscience.” 

She sought her couch and bitter tears saturated 
her downy pillow, but sleep soon tranquilized her 
excited nerves and cradled her in his embrace. She 
slept long and peacefully for, though she had lost 
much, she still retained a jewel richer by far than all 
the fabulous wealth of the Indies, more precious 
than the exhumed treasures of Thebes and Palmyra, 
sweeter than the perfumed breath of Araby the 
Blest, — a clear conscience. Not so the sorrowing 
man, who sat for hours beneath the gray night sky 
drinking the “waters of a bitter cup,” which were 
being poured out to him. The damp dews clung to 
his waving midnight hair, but he heeded them not; 
the winter winds moaned around him, fanning with 
icy breath his fevered brows, but he felt not their 
touch. His heart was as a dreary Herculaneum, full 
of dead hopes and departed blessings. 

But even as there was one thing to be prized in 
Pandora’s box, so also there was one ray of comfort 
left to Mr. Bertram, — the undying love of the 
brown-eyed maiden. It was as a wreath of immor- 
telles about his brow, an anchor upon which to rest 
in a storm-swept ocean, a beacon-light to guide him 
ever onward and upward. The hope of possessing 
Genevieve no longer dwelt in his heart, but faith 
pointed aloft to that “house not made with hands, 
eternal in the heavens,” where, as she had said, 
sorrow and separation were unknown, where he 
might claim her as his own forever and forever. 
But as the “sun does not shine always,” neither is 
it always hidden in clouds. Life is alternate 


120 


GENEVIEVE 


lights and shadows and the joy and sorrow of this 
world are about equally distributed. For those who 
have a larger capacity of suffering have a corres- 
pondent capacity of enjoyment. 

Genevieve bore her troubles meekly and with 
patience. Patience is a sublime virtue. The truest 
heroism in human life is that private heroism which 
bears with calmness inevitable ills regardless of the 
consolations of a fruitless sympathy and without the 
soothing consciousness of public attention. She sat 
one bleak day in February, together with Mrs. Ber- 
tram and Viola, in the sitting-room, engaged in 
sewing. The ladies were carrying on a desultory 
conversation, but sadness sat enthroned upon each 
countenance, though all endeavored to appear less 
gloomy than they felt. The blinds were open, the 
curtains drawn aside, revealing a beclouded sky, 
leafless trees, and, in fact, a general desolation. 
Banks of snow, remnants of the late storm, lay 
heaped in the coldest and shadiest corners, and 
shriveled leaves were being tossed hither and 
thither by the relentless blasts of grim Boreas. 

Within the room all was as pleasant as it could 
be in that dreary house. A ruddy fire glowed upon 
the polished hearth, and huge flames curled upward, 
throwing out heat and modifying the temperature 
of the apartment. The three occupants were dressed 
in deep mourning, and each was busily engaged in 
some employment of her own. Mrs. Bertram felt 
the necessity of hastening preparations for the mar- 
riage of her son and Viola, and took advantage of 
this opportunity to express herself. She perceived 
that Mr. Bertram was rapidly settling into a mor- 
bid melancholy, which she trusted would vanish 


THE EXPLANATION 


121 


under the soothing and revivifying influences of 
Viola’s affection. She remarked to the latter: 

u My dear, it is quite time that you were arrang- 
ing your future plans. I wish to have an elegant 
bridal trousseau fitted up for you, and in order to 
do so a journey to Columbia or Charleston is un- 
avoidable. You can there place yourself under the 
skilful supervision of some guardian angel of the 
wardrobe and have everything prepared suitably 
and with taste. It is useless to postpone the wedding 
day beyond the first of April. Let the coming 
spring bring sunshine to my heart as well as vitality 
to the plants. I am anxious to see my son happily 
married; to see the clouds dispelled from his brow, 
to hear his voice ring out in merry tones as it was 
wont to do in bygone days.” 

Viola toyed with her work nervously, tears 
trembled upon her golden-fringed lids. She re- 
plied: 

“Dear aunt, you expect me to accomplish stupend- 
ous results, perfect miracles. You expect my love 
to be the divine alchemy which shall transmute all 
his faults into virtues, and surely it is the ultimate 
thule of my ambition to gratify you, but I fear my 
cousin Vivian will prove an incorrigible subject.” 

“I believe,” rejoined the lady, “that an innocent, 
affectionate, confiding wife, — one who is a true 
helpmeet in every sense of the word, — can rule her 
husband effectually, can indeed become a perfect 
autocrat over him as well as over the rest of the 
household; but in order to do this she must be gentle 
and submissive, must rule without seeming to be 
conscious that she is doing so. She must never assert 
her authority in opposition to his; must never ad- 


122 


GENEVIEVE 


dress him in a peevish nor dictatorial manner; must 
yield a graceful obedience to his lightest command; 
must lead him by a silken cord. By so doing she 
will become the ‘power behind the throne,’ stronger 
than the throne itself.” 

Viola had grown restless; she laughed a low, 
mirthless laugh. 

“You had better counsel me to plume my wings 
for Paradise at once. If I could ever attain such 
a degree of perfection as the paragon of excellence 
you describe, then I would be no fitting inhabitant 
for this ‘vale of tears.’ The angels would come and 
carry me off bodily, or, like Elijah, I would ascend 
to heaven without feeling the pangs of death. But, 
dear aunt, let us change the subject. My cousin is 
in no haste to become a benedict, and I confess my 
reluctance to cross the matrimonial bridge. For 
aught I know there may be thorns and thistles on 
the other side.” 

Mrs. Bertram looked disappointed; she glanced 
at Genevieve and asked affectionately: 

“My love, what is your opinion? You are also 
a fiancee and it is reasonable to suppose that you 
have given the subject due consideration. No girl 
should enter into such a relationship without care- 
fully weighing all the advantages and disadvantages 
attendant upon it. Do you imagine that the fetters 
of wedlock will be galling to you?” 

Genevieve had shrunk back into her corner of 
the hearth at the commencement of the conversa- 
tion, which was unutterably painful to her. The 
gloom in her starry eyes was veiled by her long, 
drooping lashes, and her slender hand was raised 
before her face as if to protect it from the heat of 


THE EXPLANATION 


123 


the fire. She was about to reply when the door 
opened and Mr. Bertram entered the room, holding 
in his hand an open newspaper. If a bombshell had 
exploded in their midst, they could scarcely have 
been more astonished than they actually were at the 
wonderful change in his countenance. His face was 
transfigured with a glory wilich none had ever be- 
held there before; his dark, luminous eyes glowed 
with the splendor of a midnight star. Without 
uttering a syllable he crossed the room to where 
Genevieve sat, spread the paper before her, indi- 
cated with his forefinger a pencil-marked paragraph, 
then turned and quitted the room. The paper was 
a copy of a Charleston weekly. In it were several 
notices taken from a Florida journal. The one that 
had wrought such a metamorphosis in his appear- 
ance ran thus : 

Died on the 20th ultimo at Valveda, Fla., Mrs. Stella Lor- 
raine, in the twenty-sixth year of her age. 

It is needless to say that both Mrs. Bertram and 
Viola were eager to know what it was that our 
heroine read, but the former was a lady of great 
polish and refinement and disdained to display an 
idle curiosity. The latter was too proud to solicit 
a favor of Genevieve, so the paragraph was not 
perused by them until she had sought the privacy of 
her own apartment. Mrs. Bertram felt that she 
was impaled upon the horns of a cruel dilemma; 
she was fully aware that Genevieve had refused her 
son only because he had a living, but repudiated, 
wife. Now that that obstacle was removed would 
she wish to marry him or was she too deeply in 
love with her new suitor? Viola had similar 


124 


GENEVIEVE 


thoughts, but she knew as well as her aunt that 
Mr. Bertram would never persuade Genevieve to 
violate a promise made to the absent. His pride 
was equal to his love, as lofty as a Mont Blanc. 
They were not cognizant of the fact that the orphan 
was not betrothed to Victor Fairmont, and that Mr. 
Bertram was acquainted with the history of his un- 
successful suit. Being, therefore, in a strait, they 
wisely decided to let time smooth all difficulties. 

That evening after supper was over, as Genevieve 
was about to follow her aunt and Viola into the sit- 
ting-room, Mr. Bertram gently took possession of 
her hand and led her into the library. When he 
had closed the door and seated himself beside her 
upon the sofa, he said in a low, tremulous voice : 

“Genevieve, joy has arisen to me Lazarus-like 
from the tomb of an overwhelming sorrow. Stella 
Lorraine is dead, — dead when she expected to be 
triumphant, — dead when she would have lived to 
complete her revenge. She has stood before the 
awful tribunal of God and has received sentence for 
her crimes. I am free — free as the wild winds — and 
I now claim that boon for which I have so long 
prayed. Genevieve, my beloved, my adored, give 
me the sweet assurance that you will be mine. Tell 
me that you love me, that you will be my wife.” 

A mighty temptation assailed Genevieve. Great 
billows rushed over her soul. The desire to cast 
herself into the arms that had so often opened to 
receive her, to find a refuge upon the breast of him 
who loved her so tenderly, was almost irresistible. 
It came upon her like a foaming, overpowering tor- 
rent, and but for the remembrance of a pair of 
violet eyes, whose light might be quenched by the 


THE EXPLANATION 


125 


shedding of many tears if she consented, her will 
would have been overmastered, her resolves would 
have been swept away as by the blast of a hurri- 
cane. 

With a faltering voice she replied: 

“Oh. Mr. Bertram, there is still another barrier, 
an insurmountable barrier! You forget Viola, for- 
get that you are plighted to her, that she loves 
you fondly, that her gentle heart would break if 
she knew that you were playing the recreant. Do 
not, I beseech you, let love blind you to duty. You 
have voluntarily sought her hand in marriage. 
Render her happy and gratify your mother by con- 
summating your engagement as speedily as pos- 
sible.” 

Mr. Bertram looked as if thunderstruck. 

“Genevieve,” he cried, “you will surely permit me 
to dissolve my compact with Viola. I made no 
false protestations of affection for her. I told her 
that my desire was to please my mother — that I 
loved you.” 

“And yet, knowing all that, she consented to 
marry you. Oh, sir; how she must have loved you 
to have agreed upon those terms! Your coldness, 
your indifference, has pained her exceedingly. Be 
generous, be noble, as it is your nature to be. Love 
Viola, — forget Genevieve.” 

“Never! never! never! so help me Heaven!” he 
exclaimed. “I will not marry Viola; it is useless, 
nay, more, it is folly to entreat me. Even if her love 
for me was as fierce as Aetna, my resolve could not 
be otherwise. I have been a fool, a madman. May 
God forgive me for the detestable part I have 
played.” After a pause he continued: “Genevieve, 


126 


GENEVIEVE 


are you determined? Is there nothing that can 
overcome your iron will, that can melt your adam- 
antine heart?” 

“Nothing,” she answered firmly. “Viola’s hap- 
piness is of paramount importance. Mine has been 
wrecked and is scarcely worth a consideration.” 

She arose to depart. 

“Go, then,” commanded Mr. Bertram in accents 
of displeasure, the first that he had ever addressed 
to her, “and may God judge betwixt me and thee.” 

The son had an interview with his mother before 
she retired for the night, and besought her to use 
her influence with our heroine, but she declined, al- 
though he informed her that there was no engage- 
ment between Victor and Genevieve. 

“Wait, my dear son,” she advised, “postpone 
your marriage-day indefinitely, and perhaps God in 
His infinite goodness and compassion will bring 
order out of chaos, light out of darkness. Gene- 
vieve is conscientious; she is superior to most 
women; her sense of honor is exalted; she can 
neither be persuaded nor compelled to do anything 
contrary to her judgment.” 

Genevieve stood at her window looking out upon 
the solemn winter night, her mind dwelling upon 
that sad verse of Longfellow’s: 

"My life is cold and dark and dreary, 

Tt rains and the wind is never weary, 

My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, 

But the hopes, of youth fall thick in the blast. 

-And the day is dark and dreary.” 

A day of gloom had succeeded a night of sorrow. 
She implored her aunt with tears and entreaties to 


THE EXPLANATION 


127 


permit her to depart, to seek another home, but 
Mrs. Bertram steadfastly refused. She declared 
herself to be Genevieve’s rightful guardian, her 
natural protector, and commanded her to remain. 


CHAPTER X 


THE PATRIARCH 

Age sits with decent grace upon his visage, 

And worthily becomes his silver locks; 

He wears the marks of many years well spent, 

Of virtue, truth well-tried, and wise experience. 

— Rowe's Jane Shore. 

I thank Thee, God! for weal and woe; 

And whatsoe’er the trial be, 

’Twill serve to wean me from below, 

And bring my spirit nigher Thee. 

— Elisa Cook. 

Spring came and, though winter still lingered in 
its lap, even the changeable sky of April was a re- 
lief to those within the mansion. It was as variable 
as the shade made by the light, quivering aspen, 
but they enjoyed the alternate showers and sunshine, 
the fleeting clouds, the breath of coming May. It 
came at last, — balmy, enchanting May. Every- 
where, save in the Vale of Gloom, birds were warb- 
ling forth their wildest, most delightful melodies. 
Flowers were blooming; trees were arrayed in garbs 
of beauteous green; graceful lilies were nodding on 
their green stalks to the perfume-laden breezes; 
sparkling dewdrops were kissing the blushing rose; 

128 - 


THE PATRIARCH 


129 


modest violets were peeping from every nook and 
leafy bower; streamlets were chanting; a thousand 
delicate blossoms were springing up under foot, 
their tiny hearts to be crushed by the unrelenting 
tread of man, — creation’s lord. Nature had indeed 
donned her holiday attire. It was a time of thanks- 
giving to all, even the most benighted, the most mis- 
erable. 

Genevieve gazed with sparkling eyes and glow- 
ing cheeks upon the grand old woods, the glorious 
blue sky. One would scarcely have supposed that 
the flower of life lay in faded beauty beneath that 
beaming brow, that those smiling lips had ever 
trembled at the dark upspringing of misery; that 
her sweet voice had ever been heard to languish 
over gloomy hours, whose sad remembrance her 
heart still retained. She had prayed earnestly, fer- 
vently, for resignation. Prayer was her covering 
at night, her armor in the morning. God had 
granted her petition. A subdued peaceful light was 
diffused over her countenance, and, though a 
stranger to joy, yet, as she stood and watched Au- 
rora with rosy fingers opening the pearly gates of 
morning and admitting the golden chairiot of the 
sun, it was evident that contentment had made its 
home within her breast. Sooner or later we find 
that happiness has not erected her throne in a smil- 
ing vale, intersected by babbling brooks, fringed 
with gorgeous flowers, redolent of fragrance; but 
serene, aloft, sublime, she lifts her divine presence 
upon some storm-swept, snow-clad, cloud-capped 
mountain-peak, and those who expect to worship at 
her altars must gird themselves for the difficult, the 
dangerous ascent. 


130 


GENEVIEVE 


Mrs. Bertram had long promised the girls a 
visit to the cabins where resided the slaves of the 
plantation, and this was the day decided upon; so 
the trio, — Mrs. Bertram, Viola and Genevieve, — 
set out, followed by Pinky and Chloe, each bearing 
a large, heaping basket of delicacies for the aged, 
the afflicted and the children. 

Their course lay partly through the woods by the 
rock-walled crystal spring with its clinging moss 
and lichens, and along the margin of the silent, sil- 
very stream; but after awhile, they merged into a 
portion of open country, and our heroine was de- 
lighted with the waving fields of wheat, — the latter 
bending its golden heads beneath the ardent glances 
of old Sol. There also was a magnificent array of 
young corn, — like a panoplied host, — prepared to 
withstand the arid heat of summer and the drench- 
ing rains of autumn, so perfect was its state of culti- 
vation. As yet there were no tassels, but the grace- 
ful green stalks were nodding to one another in the 
pleasant vernal breeze. Their walk was enlivened 
by the queer but interesting conversation of the two 
neat and nimble negro girls. Pinky and Chloe were 
supremely content; they asked nothing better than 
to be permitted to walk behind their respective mis- 
tresses and to extol their perfections. They were 
clad in clean, blue-checked homespun dresses and 
white aprons, and they wore spotless white hand- 
kerchiefs tied around their heads. Their feet were 
bare from choice and their footprints marked the 
alluvial soil upon which they trod. It was pleasant 
to watch the expression of entire satisfaction that 
beamed upon their ebon faces, to listen to their sim- 
ple but heartfelt encomiums upon the daughters of 


THE PATRIARCH 


131 

Japheth who walked before them, and who were as 
goddesses in their admiring eyes. 

A brisk walk of a mile and a half brought our 
little party to its destination. The whitewashed 
cabins of the slaves of the plantation, twenty in 
number, were arranged in rows, the doors opening 
opposite to each other. Upon close inspection, it 
was discovered that everything was in pretty good 
order, thanks to the strict surveillance of the over- 
seer, a man of unexceptional character. The negro 
is inclined to be groveling in his nature, to be care- 
less and untidy, and unless encouraged by the white 
man, both by precept and example, he rapidly sinks 
into a slough of degradation, which it is painful to 
behold. 

The elder Bertrams had established several laws 
upon their plantation, and the rigid adherence to 
them had elevated their negroes far above the level 
of the other negroes in the same community, whose 
crimes, committed partly through ignorance, partly 
through natural depravity, were both atrocious and 
revolting. The present owner still enforced these 
rules, and they were observed more readily now than 
they had been heretofore, — perhaps from a force of 
habit, — or from increased confidence in their mas- 
ter’s superior judgment. One rule was that when a 
man selected a wife, he should be legally united to 
her by a minister of the Gospel or by a magistrate. 
Another was when children were born on the place 
out of wedlock they should be immediately removed 
from their mother’s care and placed on a distant 
part of the plantation under the superintendence of 
an old black woman, named “Aunt Dorcas,” an ex- 
perienced nurse. She was an octogenarian, and was 


132 


GENEVIEVE 


busily engaged in training an apprentice, who was 
soon to succeed her, now that she was becoming sup- 
erannuated. The faithful creature indeed looked 
antiquated; one might have supposed that she had 
come out of the ark with Noah and the few other 
antediluvians when it rested upon Ararat after the 
deluge, so weird and shrunken were her features, 
so innumerable the wrinkles upon her face. But, 
nevertheless, she was active and healthy, keeping in a 
perpetual good humor, singing merrily at her work 
and discharging her duties faithfully. She contem- 
plated with reluctance the prospective resignation of 
her office, — the compulsory abdication of the throne 
upon which she had so long sat and governed the lit- 
tle darkeys; for there were others committed to her 
care besides the illegitimate. The orphaned and 
the afflicted were sent to her for comfort and for 
assistance. 

So loose were the morals of the slaves, so shallow 
their affections, that for a considerable length of 
time the latter rule was considered tyrannical, and 
sometimes it was disregarded, the culprits feeling 
little attachment for their offspring and not being 
appalled at the threatened punishment. But gradu- 
ally, owing to the judicious instructions of their mas- 
ters and the exhortations and expostulations of one 
of their number, — an aged colored preacher, a 
faithful disciple of the meek and lowly Nazarene, — 
they forsook the paths of folly and crime and came 
to be honest and virtuous men and women. It be- 
came evident to them, though they were dull of com- 
prehension, that their master was earnestly striving 
for their improvement in morals, — their advance- 
ment in civilization, — and to eradicate that dark 


THE PATRIARCH 


133 


stain which ever has rested upon the character of 
the negro. The cabins were each provided with a 
substantial brick chimney, a door, and a couple of 
windows. Their interiors were scarcely as pre- 
possessing as their exteriors, owing to the slovenly 
habits of the inmates, but they were all furnished 
with stout bedsteads, comfortable straw mattresses, 
thick blankets and so forth. Around the hearths 
were strewn the cooking utensils, and in the rear of 
the cabins were situated the gardens, the pig-pens, 
and the chicken-houses. 

Some of the more industrious were well supplied 
with a variety and an abundance of vegetables and 
a quantity of fowls; others, less enterprising and en- 
ergetic, were in consequence less fortunate. One of 
the first cabins which Mrs. Bertram and her nieces 
entered was that of the aged preacher. They found 
him by the fireside busily engaged with awl and last, 
making a pair of shoes for himself. He arose, 
bowed politely, and placed chairs near the clean, 
well-swept hearth, upon which a fire was blazing; 
his uncovered dinner pot, now briskly boiling, emit- 
ted volumes of smoke, and a savory odor went up 
from a deep skillet near by, in which a delicious 
spring chicken, with its accompaniment of dump- 
lings, was stewing for the noon repast. Another 
skillet held an ample supply of bread made of In- 
dian meal, and upon the table was a stone pitcher 
of buttermilk and an empty plate and cup. 

The old man’s hair was very white, having been 
bleached by the snows of seventy winters, but his 
form was erect, his frame robust and sinewy, his 
eyes clear and piercing. A most benignant expres- 
sion lighted his countenance and a holy, happy calm- 


134 


GENEVIEVE 


ness pervaded his mind. For forty-five years he had 
been endeavoring to reclaim his darkened race, to 
teach them the glorious Gospel truths, to prepare 
them to put on the garments of immortality. Many 
of his sermons had been fruitless, had been like 
“pearls cast before swine,” but for the good he had 
accomplished he thanked God. He trusted im- 
plicitly in divine mercy; he never repined at his lot, 
nor murmured at the dispensations of Providence. 
Every night it was his custom to assemble around 
him the little negroes of the plantation, to catechise 
them, to tell them of Him Who loved them, Who 
said: “Suffer little children to come unto me, and 
forbid them not, for of such is the Kingdom of 
Heaven.” 

Regularly, twice during the week, — Wednesday 
and Sunday afternoons, — he held prayer meeting; 
and Sunday forenoons, rain or sunshine, were al- 
ways devoted to preaching, and every hour that he 
could spare during the other days was spent in de- 
livering lectures and in striving to arouse his breth- 
ren from their distressing apathy. Earnestly did he 
plead for the cause of Christ, not with flowers of 
rhetoric, but with the profound arguments of a logi- 
cal mind, with the tears and prayers of one who felt 
the necessity of urging upon others to become mem- 
bers of the blood-washed throng. “Uncle Abram,” 
as he was called, possessed the unbounded confi- 
dence of his master and mistress, of his fellow-labor- 
ers, and of all children. In all his life he had never 
been known to commit a theft, to tell a falsehood, 
nor, in fact, to violate any of the commandments 
which Moses received from God amid the thunder- 
ings and lightnings of Sinai. 


THE PATRIARCH 


i35 

He now entered into a pleasant conversation with 
his mistress, and remained standing while she sat. 
To Genevieve he looked like an enthusiast, wedded 
to his faith by the most indissoluble ties. He was 
indeed clad in the complete armor of God, and had 
he lived in the bloody days of the inquisitions, he 
would have suffered martyrdom for his religion, 
would have endured hunger, thirst, everything, even 
the most excruciating torture. Old Uncle Abram 
was a Methodist, a believer in revealed religion, in 
infant baptism, either by sprinkling or pouring, in 
open communion, and in everything else pertaining 
to that sanctuary of God, — the Methodist Episcopal 
Church, which was in his sight, as the Lamb’s wife, 
beautiful to behold. He gloried in camp-meetings, in 
good, old-fashioned shouting, in deep and fervent 
and heartfelt prayer, and, although he was a sec- 
tarian, yet he had too much wisdom and under- 
standing to believe for a moment that members of 
other denominations were not as certain of heaven 
as were those of his own, provided they were pro- 
fessed and exemplary Christians. He was a philan- 
thropist. He loved God and his fellow-creatures, 
and benefitted mankind as much as he could. If 
he had been, like Abraham, blessed with an Isaac 
of love and trust, and had been called upon to offer 
him up on the altar of sacrifice to the Most High, 
he would have done so cheerfully; but he preferred 
to remain as was Paul, and lived alone in his cabin 
like a hermit in his cell, with this difference, he 
courted instead of declining the companionship of 
his fellow-creatures. Neither wife nor children had 
ever gathered around his hearthstone, nor glad- 
dened his heart, and now that his head was hoary 


GENEVIEVE 


136 

with age and his brow furrowed by time he scarcely 
valued earthly blessings, but looked forward earn- 
estly, longingly, to the time when he should “cross 
over the river and rest in the shade.” 

Mrs. Bertram arose to leave, but Uncle Abram 
begged her to remain and to permit him to offer up 
a prayer in her behalf. She granted his request and 
reseated herself, while he drew a well-preserved 
volume of the Holy Scriptures from a shelf above 
the fireplace and read aloud a portion of its con- 
tents. He then solicited the young ladies to sing a 
verse. Viola declined, but Genevieve, in a voice as 
sweet as the music of the Aeolian harp, complied 
with his wish by singing from memory a stanza of 
that beautiful hymn, commencing, “Lord, I am 
Thine.” After she had finished they knelt and the 
sable Christian sent the following acknowledgment 
and petition upon the wings of faith to the shining 
throne : 

“O most merciful God, our heavenly Father, we 
do thank Thee for Thy infinite goodness and for 
Thy loving kindness and tender mercy to us and to 
those who are near and dear to us. We beseech 
Thee to continue to be merciful to us for Jesus’ 
sake, to shower down Thy richest and choicest bless- 
ings upon our heads. Make us to feel our utter 
helplessness and dependence upon Thee, to know 
that we are but as worms of the dust, and that un- 
less Thou dost stretch forth a helping hand to us, 
we are lost forever. Grant that we may not use 
an excess of words in addressing Thee, nor put any 
vain confidence in anything that we can do ourselves, 
nor in any weak arm of flesh, but help us to put 
our whole trust in Thee and to pray to Thee in 


THE PATRIARCH 


i37 


a humble and acceptable manner. Make us to love 
and to serve and to fear Thee, and to keep all of 
Thy commandments. Forgive us for and help us 
to guard against the sins of ingratitude to Thee, 
disobedience to Thy will, inattention to religious 
matters, for telling untruths, for slandering our 
neighbors, for giving way to our tempers, and say- 
ing and doing harsh and hasty and unkind things. 
Punish us not for being envious and jealous, deceit- 
ful and malicious and covetous, but blot these and 
all other transgressions out of Thy book of remem- 
brance, and help us to atone for past sins and follies 
by living nearer to Thee hereafter. Watch over us 
and protect us, preserve us from danger and deliver 
us from evil. If it be Thy blessed, holy will, bless us 
with perfect health and strength, with long and use- 
ful and peaceful Christian lives, and finally save us 
in Thy kingdom, for the Redeemer’s sake. Amen.” 

Uncle Abram was what you might call an edu- 
cated negro; he had been particularly bright in his 
youthful days; had associated intimately with his 
former masters; was a close observer; apt to re- 
member, and had gained a great deal by being 
brought into contact with white people. He gradu- 
ally adopted the manners and language of his 
superiors. 

When Mrs. Bertram again signified her desire 
to leave he urged her to dine in his cabin, to par- 
take of his frugal repast, and to permit him to wait 
upon her, but the lady graciously declined, at the 
same time presenting him with a pound of golden 
butter and a couple of pounds of Mocha coffee, 
brought from her own pantry for his especial 
benefit. 


GENEVIEVE 


138 

“God bless you, mistress,” said the Christian 
slave. “God forever bless you and yours. A bet- 
ter and a kinder mistress never lived.” 

Every cabin was visited by the trio; careful ex- 
aminations made of the conditions of the occupants; 
additional comforts were promised them. Various 
gifts were distributed among the children, such as 
biscuits, sugar-cakes, molasses, candy and so forth. 
The playful imps followed at their mistress’ heels 
and clamored loudly for more. Little luxuries in 
the shape of tea, coffee, butter and sugar were 
given to the sick, the feeble and the suffering. Gene- 
vieve and Viola watched with surprise and interest 
the arts of soap-making, churning, washing, starch- 
ing, ironing and scouring which were in progress, 
for this was a holiday on the plantation and the 
slaves were having a general “putting to rights.” 
Ashhoppers were objects of great wonder to the un- 
initiated daughters of Eve, and they paused to look 
at the strong, clear lye as it dripped from the 
trough into a rusty oven, — a receptacle from which 
it was ever and anon poured up into a bucket and 
transferred to a huge pot, full of a boiling mass, 
composed of refuse grease and lye. This day was an 
episode in their monotonous lives, and they en- 
joyed it with a peculiar relish. 

Their tardy footsteps at length brought the 
ladies to the door of the last cabin, that of old 
Aunt Peggy, the invalid. It was closed, but Mrs. 
Bertram knocked gently, and they were admitted 
by a stalwart negro man, Uncle Jack by name, who 
ushered them to the bedside of his afflicted wife. 
It was a sad spectacle that they saw before them, 
and our friends gazed with pitying eyes upon the 


THE PATRIARCH 


i39 


human skeleton, the mere wreck of a woman, who 
reclined upon a comfortable feather-bed, provided 
for her by the tender-hearted mistress, who ever 
administered to the wants of the needy. Aunt 
Peggy had been a sprightly, good-natured girl in 
former days, but she was now suffering from an 
internal cancer and at times experiencing the most 
intense pain. Her disease had reduced her to a 
shadow and she had been lingering for about two 
years. Shortly after the commencement of her ill- 
ness Mrs. Bertram had dispatched her and her hus- 
band to Charleston and had placed her under the 
care of an eminent physician, who treated the case 
for six months, then recommended a return home, 
pronouncing the cancer incurable. 

Through the instrumentality of Uncle Abram, 
Aunt Peggy had united herself with the church, re- 
ceived baptism and embraced religion. Since that 
time she had lived a devout Christian life, bearing 
her sufferings with patience and fortitude, never 
murmuring, nor yielding to irritability of temper, 
but always believing that God knew best. As her 
mistress approached the bed she raised her large 
hollow eyes to her face, and stretched out one emaci- 
ated hand in token of welcome. Mrs. Bertram 
pressed it warmly and inquired with tears in her 
eyes: 

“How are you to-day, my good Peggy?” 

“No better, missus,” she answered, with a groan 
and in a feeble voice. “I think I am drawin’ nigher 
t’other shore. I kin see de angels beckonin’ to me to 
come to dem, an’ de Lord knows dat I am more 
an’ willin’ to go, if it wus my Marster’s ’pinted 
time.” 


140 


GENEVIEVE 


“You have no fears, then?” 

“None, marm; dey’se all gone. I hates to leave 
my old man; he’se bin ’mazin’ kind to me since I’se 
bin layin’ here so helpless-like. Never a complaint, 
marm, nor a cross word does he gim me, but so 
patient-like all de time.” 

Genevieve turned to look at the faithful husband; 
she saw a pained expression on his face and tears 
glistening in his eyes. 

“That is right, Jack,” said Mrs. Bertram; “I am 
glad to hear that you remember your duty. Peggy 
gave herself to you when she was a healthy, happy 
girl; she bore you seven little children and was a 
kind wife, performing her duties faithfully. I doubt 
not that she would have been just as attentive to 
you if you had been the sufferer instead of her.” 

“ ’Deed she would, marm,” replied the good fel- 
low, brushing the tears from his eyes with his rough 
coat-sleeve, and weaving away vigorously on his 
willow-basket. “Peggy’s allers been a good gal 
to me and I sha’n’t never say a word to hurt her 
feelin’s.” 

“Where are the children, aunt?” inquired Viola, 
glancing around the room. 

“All dead, marm,” answered the woman, speak- 
ing for her mistress. “I had seven little child’en 
and dar’s seven little graves in de black uns’ grave- 
yard. Dey never lived no time arter dey wus 
borned. I s’pose ’cause I got to be so weakly-like. 
Four of dem wuz boys; three wus little girls. Some 
of dem would be grown now, if dey wus living, but 
my Marster knowed best an’ I am on my way to 
meet dem in Canaan.” 

“Is everything comfortable here?” asked the 


THE PATRIARCH 


141 

lady. u Do you need anything at all? Tell me.” 

“No, marm, nothing. Mars Vivian corned dis 
way from de store t’other day an’ brung me his 
pockets full of sugar an’ tea. God bless him ! I 
wish I could see him well married afore I die, an’ 
den, like old Simeon, I could go in peace.” 

Mrs. Bertram drew from one of the baskets, 
which had been deposited upon a table, a bottle of 
blackberry wine, a bottle of laudanum, for the pur- 
pose of deadening the pain, some crackers and more 
tea and sugar. These were thankfully received by 
the sufferer, who expressed her gratitude in words of 
esteem and affection for her mistress. 

“I won’t be here long,” she affirmed as they were 
preparing to leave. “God’ll soon take me out of 
dis troublous world. I’se alters tried to serve Him, 
to thank Him for everything, to tell de truth, to 
spend Sundays right, an’ t’other days right, an’ to 
permote, as Uncle Abram says, His Word.” 

“And you will be rewarded, my faithful creature. 
In that land toward which you are journeying there 
is no pain, no disease, no dying, — nothing but peace 
and joy and love.” 

A happy expression illuminated the countenance 
of the dying woman; she clasped her hands together 
and raised her eyes to heaven while her lips moved 
in an inaudible prayer. 


CHAPTER XI 


THE SUDDEN ARRIVAL 

Through the shadowy past, 

Like a tomb searcher, memory ran, 

Lifting each shroud that time had cast 
O’er buried hopes. 

— Moore's “Loves of the Angels ” 

What if a footstep through the wooded walk 
Makes eager tread, 

Whose bounding music in thy beating heart 
Is answered? 

The shadows had long been lengthening on the 
grass and the golden sun hung low in the Occident 
when Mrs. Bertram and her little party commenced 
to retrace their homeward steps. The lady led 
them by a totally different route and into a deep and 
shaded glen, through which the rivulet slowly glided 
onward to unite itself with the foaming Catawba, 
near old Mount Dearborn with its canal-encircled 
base. Its splendid brick edifice, a fort during the 
Revolutionary War and ever an object of interest 
and attraction to the sons and daughters of South 
Carolina, was now in gloomy ruins. There, also, 
to diversify the scene, to beautify the landscape, and 
to enchant the artist’s eye, were the dashing, rush- 
142 


THE SUDDEN ARRIVAL 


i43 


fng, sparkling falls with their crests of white foam, 
and huge piles of rocks, rearing themselves like 
mountains above and around the beautiful river. 

The glen to which we alluded above was situ- 
ated in one of the darkest recesses of the forest 
and was lonely and desolate in the extreme. No 
warbling of birds, no sounds of life were audible. 
The diminutive and translucent waves of the little 
stream reflected a few of the sun’s dying beams 
which had penetrated the wood and a gentle breeze 
stirred its bosom, bringing into life a thousand danc- 
ing ripples. A few purple violets peeped shyly out 
from behind their hiding-places and some sweet- 
heart leaves lifted themselves above the dense car- 
pet of autumn leaves that were strewn in profusion 
all over the shade-embowered dell. In the centre 
of a little opening stood three magnificent mausole- 
ums of white marble, and Genevieve knew that she 
trod on consecrated ground, the burial-place of the 
Bertrams. There were only three graves, — the war- 
worn veteran’s, his noble Saxon wife’s and that of 
their only son, the husband of the present Mrs. Ber- 
tram. Genevieve slowly followed her aunt, whose 
pale face and tearful eyes enlisted her warmest sym- 
pathies. Viola turned aside to gather a few heart 
leaves for her herbarium and the two negro girls 
halted near the stream to bathe their dusty feet. 
Mrs. Bertram approached the sepulchre dedicated 
to the memory of her husband, her bosom full of 
sweet and bitter recollections and deep regrets. She 
knelt beside it, the tears streaming down her cheeks 
and falling upon the damp sod. A low moan es- 
caped her lips; she raised her eyes to our heroine’s 
compassionate face and murmured : 


144 


GENEVIEVE 


“Here lies the noblest and truest of men, the most 
devoted of husbands, the fondest of fathers. Oh, 
Genevieve, my poor heart has known no abatement 
of the anguish that crushed it when his kingly head 
was laid so low, though I have striven to conceal it 
for my son’s sake. I wished to brighten his life as 
much as possible, but a curse hangs over the Ber- 
trams ; there can be no peace for those of their un- 
happy race.” 

Genevieve knelt beside the bereaved widow and 
mingled her tears with those that were falling for 
the noble dead. 

“Dear aunt,” she said, hoping to divert her mind, 
“where did you first meet my uncle?” 

“In Scotland, Genevieve. I had ridden out early 
one morning unaccompanied by a groom. My 
father was then at Montrose, an old abbey belong- 
ing to our family. He was a bold hunter and I 
inherited his love for wild rides, but somehow my 
equestrianship was at fault that day, for my horse 
became badly frightened and came near precipitat- 
ing me headlong over a terrible precipice in the 
mountains. But just at the moment when the world 
was fading from my view a powerful grasp ar- 
rested my steed, throwing him back upon his 
haunches, and I was caught in the arms of a young 
man clad in the garb of a hunter. My senses for- 
sook me while my gaze was fixed upon his face and 
when I recovered them I was lying on a sofa in the 
great hall at Montrose, my father and brothers 
bending over me in wild alarm and the servants 
hurrying to and fro in a panic of the wildest con- 
sternation. I looked beyond them all and beheld my 
preserver. He leaned against the massive door, 


THE SUDDEN ARRIVAL 


i45 


pale and agitated. At that moment my heart went 
out to him with all its treasures of love. The glad 
blood bounded in my veins; my pulses thrilled with 
renewed life; my heart throbbed with an emotion 
almost ecstatic, and I thanked God that I was 
spared, — perhaps for him. I arose from my reclin- 
ing posture, tossed back my disheveled hair, and 
turned to meet the surprised and delighted glances 
of my friends. The stranger, perceiving that I had 
recovered from my swoon, approached and lifted 
his plumed hat. I advanced to meet him and offered 
my hand, thanking him for my preservation from 
instant death. He gracefully acknowledged my 
gratitude, refusing to consider his act meritorious 
and expressing his delight at forming my acquaint- 
ance in the warmest terms. My father and brothers 
then crowded around him, while I made my escape 
to my own apartment and spent an hour in the 
adornment of my person. We met again at the din- 
ner-table, and I learned from his own lips that he 
was the son of an English gentleman, or rather 
nobleman, residing in America unostentatiously and 
engaging in all the pursuits and occupations of a 
country farmer. Eugene Bertram informed me 
also that he had been educated in England; that 
previous to his departure for America he had given 
himself the pleasure of indulging in solitary rambles 
among the Scottish mountains; that he had been 
boarding in a cottage near Montrose for months and 
had seen me on several occasions, but was never 
very near me until that eventful morning. Yielding 
to the urgent and repeated solicitations of my 
friends, he consented to make Montrose his home 
for the next fortnight. At the expiration of that 


146 


GENEVIEVE 


time we returned to my father’s English home and 
he accompanied us. After three months had elapsed 
there was a grand wedding at our house in London, 
and need I tell you, Genevieve, that I was the happy 
bride whose heart was filled with such unutterable 
happiness on that occasion?” 

“In four more months we had crossed the broad 
Atlantic with its foam-crested billows and stood 
upon American soil. After a brief residence in 
New York we visited Philadelphia, Washington and 
the Monumental City; then we came south, first to 
Charleston, then to Columbia, and finally to the 
Vale of Gloom, so christened from the dense foli- 
age of the forest which shaded to such an extent the 
valley owned by the Bertrams. My reception was 
flattering to my pride in the extreme. My hus- 
band’s parents, a grand and aristocratic pair, de- 
scendants of those who wore the ducal strawberries, 
were cordial and expressed their approbation of the 
choice which their son had made. They did not live 
many years after our return, and we grieved much 
when they were borne to their last home, but new 
joys were given us. Pattering footsteps and prat- 
tling voices made the old mansion ring with their 
music, and for many years my happiness was unal- 
loyed. But darkness came at last; thick clouds en- 
veloped us in their awful gloom, and since then my 
heart has mourned with unceasing regret the van- 
ished blessings of the past. My father died many 
years ago, and my elder brother inherited his fine 
estates in England and Scotland; then he was 
stricken down by the relentless hand of the de- 
stroyer and his fortune, or at least the landed por- 
tion of it, descended to my younger brother, who 


THE SUDDEN ARRIVAL 


i47 


is also dead. The fine old abbey of Montrose, the 
Castle of Heroncliff and the magnificent house in 
the West End, London, have fallen to the de- 
scendants of my father’s brother. My father and 
brothers left no male issue and their daughters could 
not inherit estates, though ample fortunes in the 
shape of money were bequeathed to them.” 

“What was my grandfather’s name, aunt, — your 
elder brother’s?” inquired Genevieve. 

“Clifton Montrose, or Lord Clifton Montrose, 
afterward Earl of Heroncliff. He took my father’s 
family name, that of Montrose. Viola’s father, 
who was my younger brother, adopted that of my 
mother, Clayborne, and inherited from his ma- 
ternal grandfather the castle of Wingleden, where 
Viola was born, and which after his death became 
the property of his wife’s brother, the Marquis of 
Inverberry.” 

“So,” said Genevieve, musingly, “my ancestors 
were peers and peeresses of the British realm.” 

“Yes, my dear,” replied Mrs. Bertram, “but in 
this free and independent country there are no such 
things as titled men and women, and though it is a 
comfort to know that I have honorable blood flow- 
ing in my veins, yet I do not sigh for the departed 
splendors of Montrose and Heroncliff, nor for the 
title which I once bore.” 

Viola, who had approached and heard a consid- 
erable portion of her aunt’s history and who was 
possesssed of a fair amount of curiosity, now in- 
quired: 

“Aunt, what became of your daughter, — my cou- 
sin Marion, — of whom my father has often told 
me?” 


148 


GENEVIEVE 


Mrs. Bertram became ghastly pale and rested 
her head against the marble basin upon the tomb, 
which was filled with damp earth, covered with dark 
green moss. It was a sad picture to behold, and 
Viola’s conscience reproved her for the thoughtless 
question. She sank down beside her aunt while the 
drooping branches of a weeping-willow waved over 
them all in silent, solemn majesty. 

“Dear aunt,” she entreated, “forgive me if I have 
unintentionally pained you, — if I have recalled some 
ghost of the past. The question was a thoughtless 
one on my part, almost an involuntary one.” 

Mrs. Bertram kissed her tenderly in token of par- 
don, then arose and the party resumed their home- 
ward walk. They were met at the door by Mr. Ber- 
tram, who had been sitting in the lighted hall await- 
ing their arrival. His gloomy black eyes sought the 
pure, sweet face of the orphan with its delicate 
tints, its brown orbs full of fleeting shadows and its 
shining veil of golden brown hair falling in glossy 
luxuriance from her polished forehead below her 
dainty neck to her graceful shoulders. She wore a 
walking dress of black bombazine, made short and 
revealing her fairy feet and slender ankles, encased 
in close fitting boots of morocco. Her white hands 
were bare, and she held in one her black hat with 
its waving plumes and silver star. Mr. Bertram 
thought that he had never beheld a more seraphic 
countenance, a more divine form, and his heart 
ached with its intensity of love, its inexpressible 
longing to claim her for his wife. 

Supper was announced and the party proceeded to 
the dining-room, where a tempting repast was laid 
upon a spotless linen diaper cloth. The table glit- 


THE SUDDEN ARRIVAL 149 

tered with its array of cut glass, china and silver- 
ware. Light, hot rolls; cream biscuits; hominy; sil- 
ver cake in a silver basket lined with gold; “a pyra- 
mid of honey dripping in its own delicious sweets 7 ’; 
a porcelain dish heaped with rare crimson strawber- 
ries, whose red wine mingled with powdered sugar, 
only awaited the golden cream to make it a com- 
bination dainty enough to please the palate of a 
king. The exercise of the day had sharpened the 
appetite of the ladies and they did ample justice to 
the well-prepared viands. 

June, the “month of roses,” the queen of months, 
came blithely dancing into life, bejeweled as a Hin- 
doo queen; then followed sultry July, with its op- 
pressive days and debilitating nights, its burning 
sun, hanging like a globe of fire in the blue heavens, 
and its shimmering vapors floating in the dense at- 
mosphere. The doors and windows of Castle 
Gloom were thrown wide open to admit exery 
breath of air that might be seeking to find an en- 
trance. 

It was about five o’clock in the afternoon. Gene- 
vieve and Viola sat in the great hall, the former ar- 
rayed in a dress of snowy lutestring, confined at the 
waist by a black girdle; and there was a knot of 
ribbon at her throat of the same hue. The latter 
was clad in a robe of airy white muslin, with clusters 
of purple flowers upon it, made with flowing sleeves 
which revealed her delicate wrists, upon which were 
clasped bracelets of jet and gold. Around her 
slender waist was tied a frilled apron of white lawn, 
and her golden hair was wound in a shining coil 
around her queenly head, stray ringlets here and 
there escaping and falling on her ivory neck. Viola’s 


150 


GENEVIEVE 


fancy had unlocked its casket of treasures and was 
reveling in the delightful joys which might have 
been hers, had not a cruel fate ordained otherwise. 
She lived over again the sunny days of yore, when 
with her hand resting upon the arm of Victor Fair- 
mont she had promenaded the white deck of the 
Ocean Queen , beneath the starlit skies, her heart 
thrilling under his tender glances and her ears drink- 
ing in with eager delight the melting music of his 
voice. Now and then the sad reality intruded it- 
self upon her mind and she would turn with a sigh 
to where Genevieve sat, looking like an Undine, 
with her white robes floating around her, busy at 
her embroidery, her placid face bending over the 
frame. It was strange that Viola had never found 
out that Genevieve had rejected Victor Fairmont. 
She had guarded her secret so carefully that none 
had ever dreamed of her unrequited love. Neither 
Mrs. Bertram nor her son were communicative per- 
sons. Genevieve preserved silence through motives 
of delicacy, and was consequently regarded by her 
cousin as a successful rival. 

The confinement of the house became unsupport- 
able to Viola; she arose, threw a gossamer veil over 
her head and went out into the grounds. Genevieve 
watched her retreating figure, her hair, like threads 
of spun gold, glittering in the sun’s golden light, 
and sighed at their estrangement; then she put aside 
her work and went into the library. A few moments 
later the great gate swung open and our heroine, 
looking from the open window, beheld a well-re- 
membered form standing near the wall, while old 
Oscar bowed and scraped and pulled his forelock 
in delighted welcome. She strained her eyes to catch 


THE SUDDEN ARRIVAL 


151 

a view of his face and feared that they were de- 
ceiving her; but no, it was — it was in reality — Vic- 
tor Fairmont. For some moments he stood in con- 
ference with the gate-keeper, then, instead of com- 
ing to the house, hastened in the direction which 
Viola had taken. Genevieve awaited their coming 
until the library was full of dusky shadows and un- 
til the little stars peeped out, wondering all the time 
at their prolonged absence ; then she sought her own 
apartment to prepare for supper. 

Viola had wandered about listlessly until by 
chance she came to the water-nymph’s cool and se- 
cluded retreat, where the inviting shade tempted her 
to repose. She threw herself indolently upon the 
green sward and gazed at the blue sky above, with 
its fleecy clouds, and at their reflection in the mirror 
of water resting so tranquilly in the marble basin 
at the nymph’s feet. The silence was soon broken 
by the opening of the massive gate, but the girl’s 
thoughts were busy with the shadowy past, and she 
forgot the circumstance, or thought perhaps that her 
cousin Vivian had returned from a ride. Ere long 
she heard footsteps approaching and her heart 
thrilled with a nameless joy. Nearer and nearer 
they came; the shrubbery was parted by a pair of 
white, shapely hands; a pair of merry brown eyes 
peeped through the opening, and he of whom she 
had been thinking the livelong day suddenly ap- 
peared to her enraptured vision. Viola sprang from 
her reclining posture, the carnation roses burning 
with intense brilliancy upon her cheeks, the love- 
light trembling in her blue eyes, and a happy smile 
hovering about her rosebud mouth; then reaction 
took place; she remembered Genevieve and knew 


152 


GENEVIEVE 


that he must have been seeking her. Her trembling 
limbs refused longer to sustain her and she sank 
down upon the green earth. Victor approached her, 
his own eyes dancing with happiness, and said in a 
merry voice: 

“Is it a sylph that I behold, or is Miss Violet-Eyes 
attitudinizing for a painter? Or is it Venus her- 
self, reclining in beauty? Have you no welcome 
for a wanderer?” 


CHAPTER XII 

MARION BERTRAM 

With head upraised, and look intent, 

And eye and ear attentive bent, 

And locks flung back, and lips apart, 

Like monument of Grecian art. 

— Scott's “Lady of the Lake ” 

’Tis said she once was beautiful; — and still 
(For Tis not years that can have wrought her ill) 

Deep rays of loveliness around her form 
Beam, as the rainbow that succeeds the storm 
Brightens a glorious ruin. 

Viola made an effort to recover her composure 
and partly succeeded. 

“You were doubtless seeking Genevieve,” she 
answered, “and, although I give you welcome, yet 
I will not detain you from her. I left her in the 
hall alone.” 

“I wish to see her at some future time, but not 
at present. You are entirely mistaken in supposing 
that my visit was to her. I came to see you, and, 
learning your whereabouts, hastened hither.” 

He gently assisted her to arise and placed her 
in a rustic chair, throwing himself in a humble at- 
titude at her feet. 


153 


154 


GENEVIEVE 


“Dear Viola,” he continued, taking her hand, 
“you must have known that 1 loved you ere we 
landed upon American shores, and frequently the 
declaration of my affection trembled upon my lips, 
but I was conscious of the fact that you knew com- 
paratively nothing of my history, and I feared to 
take advantage of your ignorance. I deferred the 
gratification of my wishes until you should become 
better acquainted with my character, until I should 
discover my parentage, of which I am free to con- 
fess to you I know absolutely nothing, though I be- 
lieve I was honorably born. You came south and I 
followed for the purpose of winning you for my 
bride. Here I met Genevieve, and it is impossible 
to describe the impression she made upon me. It 
was as if an angel had dawned upon me. I felt that 
her spirit was kindred to mine — that we were con- 
genial souls. I loved her and asked her hand in 
marriage, but she rejected me gently, though firmly, 
and gave me no ray of hope. After that I enter- 
tained no idea of ever wedding her, and before I 
left this place my affections returned with renewed 
force to you. Since then you have never been ab- 
sent from my thoughts, and I love you, Viola, with 
an intensity of devotion of which I did not dream 
myself capable.” 

“Oh, Mr. Fairmont,” said Viola, trembling in 
every limb, “how can it be possible that you and 
Genevieve are not betrothed? I was sitting up6n 
the veranda steps the night that you declared your 
love. I heard her reply: ‘I love you, Victor.’ ” 

“And did you hear no more?” he asked eagerly. 

“No, I glided away into the darkness and left 
you and her, as I supposed, betrothed lovers.” 


MARION BERTRAM 155 

“It is strange that Genevieve never disabused 
your mind of that opinion.’* 

“I have been in fault,” replied Viola, blushing 
deeply. “By my coldness I have alienated my 
cousin’s love from me, and she does not dream of 
its cause. I have given her no opportunity to con- 
fide in me.” 

“And may I ask the origin of that unfriendliness, 
my love?” he said tenderly. “Was it because you 
were a little afraid — just a very little — that she 
liked me too well?” 

Viola was covered with confusion, but she an- 
swered candidly: “I see my error and am not 
ashamed to confess that I was jealous of dear, inno- 
cent Genevieve.” 

“And you loved me?” he cried. “You loved me 
all the time, my blue-eyed darling? Oh, how un- 
worthy I am of so sweet a creature!” 

“I did,” she whispered. 

He sprang to his feet and caught her to his bosom 
in an ecstasy of joy. Both were startled at that 
moment by a slight rustling in the shrubbery. Viola 
released herself from her lover’s embrace and said 
sorrowfully, with downcast eyes: 

“You should have known your heart better, Vic- 
tor. When I was so fully convinced that you be- 
longed to another I foolishly became accessory to 
a plot which was intended as a revenge upon Gene- 
vieve.” 

“And what was that, my darling?” he inquired 
anxiously. 

“I pledged myself to become the wife of my 
cousin, Vivian, who had sued for Genevieve’s hand 
in vain.” 


156 


GENEVIEVE 


“And did you not know that he had a repudiated 
wife living ?” 

“Ah, yes; but I was possessed of a revengeful 
demon and I wished to prove to you, who I believed 
half suspected my love, that you were mistaken; 
that I did not care for you. Since then the divorced 
wife of my cousin has died, and had I known that 
Genevieve was free I would have immediately re- 
leased my cousin from his irksome engagement and 
permitted him to renew his addresses to her, which 
he has doubtless longed to do, but has hitherto been 
withheld from doing by a sense of duty to me.” 

“And now,” exclaimed Mr. Fairmont rapturously 
— “and now, my darling, you can give him back his 
freedom. If his wife is dead he can wed Gene- 
vieve, whom he loves devotedly and who loves him 
in return. You shall be my own precious wife. 
Speak, my beloved, shall it not be so?” 

Viola made an inarticulate reply and rested her 
shining head upon his bosom, while he showered 
kisses upon her glowing cheek. 

A few moments later Genevieve heard a low 
knock upon her chamber door. Supposing that 
some one had come to summon her to supper, she 
made no reply, but prepared to go downstairs. The 
knock was repeated and a tender voice called: 

“Genevieve.” 

She opened the door and saw in the dark hall the 
outlines of Mr. Bertram’s form. He was much 
agitated and said in low, almost inaudible tones : 

“Genevieve, a great joy has come. I wish you 
to share it. I have emerged from an impenetrable 
darkness into the glorious light of the noonday.” 

As he spoke he drew her to the head of the stair- 


MARION BERTRAM 


157 


case; they descended to the lower hall, where Mr. 
Bertram, ever thoughtful, caught up a veil and threw 
it over our heroine’s head to protect it from the 
heavy twilight dews. He then opened the door and 
the two went out into the dusk, speeding onward 
until they neared the nymph’s retreat, when Mr. 
Bertram cautioned in a hushed voice: 

“Step lightly, Genevieve, and breathe softly.” 

Presently they entered a little bower in the rear 
of the fountain, completely surrounded by dense 
shrubbery. Voices were heard in low, earnest con- 
versation. Mr. Bertram knelt upon the green earth, 
drew the orphan to a kneeling posture beside him, 
parted the shrubbery with his hand, and bade her 
look. What she saw struck her dumb with amaze- 
ment. Viola was still standing, her waist encircled 
by the arm of Victor Fairmont, her head resting 
upon his bosom, her blushing face upturned to his, 
and his eyes looking down into hers with the deepest 
tenderness. 

“And, my darling,” he was saying, “you have 
loved me all the time — your heart has never known 
a diminution of its tenderness? You loved me even 
when you believed me the property of another? Oh, 
how can I ever forgive myself for such infidelity to 
the fairest, dearest of women?” 

“Do not upbraid yourself, Victor,” answered 
Viola, “since I so freely forgive you. I have loved 
you alone, you all the time, and now I sigh for a 
reconciliation with my deeply injured Genevieve.” 

“Mr. Bertram will console her,” gayly retorted 
Victor. “You will permit me to see him to-night, 
will you not, to dissolve the engagement existing 
between you and him?” 


158 


GENEVIEVE 


“No; I would not pain my cousin’s noble heart 
by sending another, not even you, to intercede for 
me. I will go myself, and he will send me to you 
untrammeled by any vow, save that which I have 
given to you.” 

The supper bell rang for the absentees. Victor 
and his betrothed wended their way toward the 
house, while Mr. Bertram, who had paid little heed 
to the summons, raised our heroine and endeavored 
to catch a glimpse of her face. Genevieve was 
weak and faint from surprise, joy and, we might 
add, terror, for a great happiness is sometimes as 
awful and hard to be borne as a mighty grief. She 
felt that the only obstacle to her union with Mr. 
Bertram was removed; she knew that he was trem- 
bling with an excess of delight; she could hear his 
great heart throbbing with an intensity of emotion; 
she dared not raise her eyes lest they should en- 
counter those burning ones whose mesmeric power 
she felt sensibly and whose pleading, eloquent glance 
she knew she could no longer resist. 

“Tell me,” she whispered, “how it happened. I 
cannot understand. I am in doubt still.” 

Mr. Bertram then gave her a history of the after- 
noon. He had wandered out early after dinner, 
had accidentally come upon the little bower, and, 
feeling indolent, had thrown himself upon the cool 
clover. The monotonous hum of the honey-bees 
and the drowsy tinklings of the distant fold lulled 
him to sleep. He slept long and awoke with a 
start. Voices were heard and recognized. He was 
riveted to the spot by the words that were uttered. 
He proceeded to give our heroine an accurate ac- 
count of all that had transpired. When he had fin- 


MARION BERTRAM 


i59 


ished he opened his arms, his breath came quick 
and short, his bosom heaved, his dark eyes shone 
like refulgent stars. Our heroine could hold out 
no longer. She advanced, then hesitated and with- 
drew herself a little, but finally sprang into his out- 
stretched arms with a low cry of joy and hid her 
brown head, with its clustering curls, upon his loyal 
breast. She was clasped in a close embrace and low 
words of love and tenderness were breathed into her 
ears, while the spangled heavens rested like a shining 
frame above them, and the crescent moon smiled 
down upon them and angels clapped their hands in 
joy over their new-found happiness. But at that 
moment, the most supremely blest of their lives, a 
low, hissing sound was heard, followed by a mock- 
ing, demoniacal laugh. Genevieve shuddered and 
clung closer to her lover. Even Mr. Bertram felt 
uneasy and, gently putting her aside, advanced to 
the spot from whence the sound proceeded. Gene- 
vieve stilled her heart and placed herself in a listen- 
ing attitude, her head upraised, her neck arched and 
her eager ears strained to catch a repetition of the 
sound. Mr. Bertram presently returned and his 
fears vanished at sight of the lovely creature in 
her snowy robes, with the soft moonshine resting 
like a halo upon her ringleted head. He could not 
refrain from again taking her to his heart and re- 
assuring her by expressing his belief that the laugh 
proceeded from the old witch of the Black Tarn, 
who was doubtless lurking near the wall on the out- 
side, for the purpose of gaining admittance into 
the yard by some means. 

“For,” said he, “I have seen her several times 
recently concealed near the gate, hoping, I dare say, 


i6o 


GENEVIEVE 


that Oscar would forget himself and leave it un- 
locked. She doubtless makes a circuit of the wall 
occasionally to see if she cannot find some mode 
of ingress, but the wall is substantial; there is no 
dilapidation about it, and if she does not effect an 
entrance by the gate she must remain forever out- 
side.” 

“But what can be her object?” inquired Gene- 
vieve tremulously. 

Mr. Bertram laughed. 

“Simply this,” he said: “She is old and feeble 
and wholly unable to earn her bread. She has there- 
fore to resort to stealing and hopes to gain access 
to the poultry yard or to my mother’s pantry. I 
have given her money time and again and would do 
more for her, but she is a miserable old vagrant 
without any principle, without, I verily believe, any 
soul. She never fails to curse me even when I have 
just bestowed alms upon her.” 

The truth was Mr. Bertram felt far from satis- 
fied, but he wished to quiet our heroine’s apprehen- 
sions. Genevieve longed to tell him of the mys- 
terious apparition she had twice seen in her cham- 
ber, but in that hour of perfect reunion she disliked 
to introduce unpleasant subjects. 

They walked toward the mansion hand in hand, 
betrothed lovers, the man’s passionate kisses warm 
upon the girl’s dewy lips. That night when Viola 
sought an interview with her cousin he was sitting 
in his mother’s room, engaged in a pleasant con- 
versation with her and Genevieve. He frankly ac- 
knowledged that he had played the eavesdropper 
that afternoon, and willingly released her from her 
engagement to him and pointed to his new-found 


MARION BERTRAM 


161 


consolation. Viola’s gay laugh echoed through the 
old mansion, then she wound her arms around Gene- 
vieve and, with tears and kisses, begged pardon for 
the past, while Mrs. Bertram, to whom a complete 
revelation had been made, looked on smilingly and 
rejoiced that the cloud had been lifted. 

The party then adjourned to the parlor, where 
they found Mr. Fairmont engaged in reading. He 
laid aside his book and, looking at Genevieve, said 
laughingly: 

“Miss St. Julian, I wish I were a poet that I 
might indite a sonnet to your eyebrows. I never 
saw them looking so highly arched nor so triumph- 
ant at any previous time.” 

Our heroine made a merry reply and the con- 
versation became general and entertaining. At 
twelve o’clock the family dispersed for the night. 
Genevieve and Viola ascended the stairs together 
and exchanged kisses and embraces in the upper 
hall, the reconciliation between them being as per- 
fect as they could desire; then they separated, each 
going to her respective chamber. The orphan was 
too overjoyed to seek repose; her heart was full of 
mingled emotions, happiness being the most pre- 
dominant. The star of hope was in the ascendant, 
the sun of love was shedding its effulgent beams 
upon her heart, illumining the hitherto drear and 
shadowy corners. She seated herself by the large 
bay window and the cool, refreshing breath of mid- 
night fanned her cheek and lifted her waving tresses. 
Presently she heard footsteps, and, looking down, 
beheld Mr. Bertram, who had been making a cir- 
cuit of the grounds in the hope of discovering the 
intruder; but his efforts had been unsuccessful. As 


162 


GENEVIEVE 


he passed beneath the maiden’s window he suddenly 
raised his eyes, as he had done once on a previous 
occasion. Genevieve had leaned forward and was 
watching eagerly the outlines of the manly form of 
him whom she loved so well, her heart bounding 
with pride at the blissful thought that he was now 
all her own. He saw her in the bright starlight and 
by the light of the lantern which he bore in his hand, 
and asked, in a voice whose tender cadence thrilled 
her soul: 

“Is my darling still awake? Is she too happy to 
sleep?” 

Genevieve murmured a low assent and he con- 
tinued : 

“The hours will be ages until we meet again.” 
Then, bidding her good-night, he passed on and en- 
tered the house. 

About two o’clock our heroine arose to make 
preparations for retiring, but they were arrested and 
her attention was attracted by a rustling noise, as 
of sweeping garments outside in the hall. She sus- 
pended her breathing and listened eagerly, her ears 
strained to catch the lightest sound. Stealthy foot- 
steps approached the door and a hand was laid 
upon the knob. Genevieve’s heart throbbed wildly 
for a moment, then, remembering that she had 
locked the door, she became more composed. The 
knob was softly turned again and again, but the 
door refused to open; then there was a long silence. 
Genevieve crept noiselessly across the apartment and 
applied her ear to the keyhole, first having with- 
drawn the key. After a few moments the trailing 
garments and stealthy footsteps glided back down 
the great hall. 


MARION BERTRAM 163 

“My God!” murmured our heroine, “there is 
some dark mystery in this house.” 

She felt a conviction of her safety and her 
thoughts flew to Viola. With joy she remembered 
that her friend was like herself, timid and nervous, 
and never failed to examine her room and secure 
her door before retiring. But Victor Fairmont, the 
brave, the noble, the careless Victor, — had he 
thought to lock his door? Her heart answered no I 
Fearing nothing, he had taken no such precaution. 
To think with our heroine was to act. She softly 
thrust the key into the lock, turned it and, the door 
opening, went out into the hall. As she more than 
half expected, the door to Victor Fairmont’s room, 
which was situated diagonally across the hall from 
hers, was standing ajar. With hurried but noiseless 
steps, she traversed the intervening distance and 
halted upon the threshold. Great God! what a 
spectacle did she behold! The same awful presence 
that had twice intruded itself upon her was bending 
over the reclining form of the sleeping youth. Even 
in that moment of deadly peril Genevieve could not 
fail to note the benignant expression that rested 
upon his features as he lay upon his bed with the 
snowy counterpane drawn over him ; nor did she fail 
to observe the wild and terrible beauty of the crea- 
ture who stood near him. She was a tall and com- 
manding woman, with black and piercing eyes, with 
cheeks upon which hectic flushes were burning 
fiercely, and her hair was falling in silvery glory to 
her waist. Our heroine advanced into the apart- 
ment; the maniac — for such she was — turned her 
glaring eyes upon her and demanded fiercely: 

“How dare you intrude upon Marion Bertram, 


164 


GENEVIEVE 


the destroyer, in an hour like this, when she is 
about to consummate her revenge upon the offspring, 
the hated offspring, of Walter and Lilian St. Julian? 
Begone ! or you shall share his untimely fate and my 
dagger shall be withdrawn from your bosom, reek- 
ing with the red blood which flows through your 
veins, — the blood of the hated, the accursed St. 
Julian, commingled with that of the treacherous, the 
detested Lilian.” 


CHAPTER XIII 

THE MANIAC’S DAGGER 

The Mechanic who would perfect his work must first sharpen 
his tools. — Confucius. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 

And flowers to wither at the North wind's breath, 

And stars to set; but all — 

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! 

— Felicia Hemans. 

Genevieve saw that the maniac held aloft the 
same gleaming dagger with which she had so ter- 
ribly frightened her at a preceding period, and that 
a murderous light burned in her eyes. The words 
that she had uttered sank deep in our heroine’s 
heart, but she had no time to ask an explanation. 
Advancing rapidly to the bed, upon which the 
sleeper was now stirring uneasily, she cried: 

“Woman, you are mistaken. This man is not 
the son of Walter and Lilian St. Julian, but a 
stranger — — ” 

“Ah, but do I not know this mark?” asked the 
maniac, pointing to a scar in the shape of a cross 
that glowed upon his white throat. “And this?” 

165 


1 66 


GENEVIEVE 


indicating another in the form of a star and of the 
same vivid hue, upon his exposed wrist. 

“My brother had no such marks/’ ejaculated the 
terrified girl. 

“Your brother!” echoed the mad woman. “Then 
it is as I have supposed. You are indeed the daugh- 
ter of my enemies. Die, then, by the hand of the 
wronged, the revengeful Marion.” 

As she spoke, with the rapidity of lightning, she 
plunged the cold steel into the delicate flesh of the 
unhappy maiden. At the same moment Victor Fair- 
mont awoke and gazed around the lighted room, 
for we have hitherto omitted to mention that the 
maniac carried the identical lamp with which she 
had on a previous occasion lighted her way to our 
heroine’s apartment. Genevieve’s wild, agonized 
shriek rang through the silent and gloomy mansion* 
startling the slumberers upon their beds and causing 
them to spring up in wild alarm, while the cold per- 
spiration coursed down their trembling limbs. Mr. 
Bertram was the first to make his appearance, and 
the truth was revealed to him in a moment, in the 
twinkling of an eye. Genevieve was lying prostrate 
and motionless upon the floor, her white dress 
dabbed with the crimson tide which was flowing 
from beneath her garments, her face ghastly and 
rigid, and her brown eyes half closed as if in dis- 
solution. Victor Fairmont had been engaged in a 
fierce struggle with the fearful creature who had 
attempted to destroy the life of the orphan. She 
fought him with the desperation of a tigress, but 
his superior strength had overmastered hers and he 
was standing with his dressing-robe thrown around 
him, his strong grasp upon her, her frantic efforts 


THE MANIAC’S DAGGER 


167 


to release herself becoming feebler and feebler. 

Soon the apartment was a scene of the wildest 
dismay. Mrs. Bertram, Viola and the servants hur- 
ried in, and the former, on beholding the prisoner, 
shrieked: 

u My God! Marion has escaped from the turret- 
chamber! She has murdered Genevieve!” 

“Be calm, mother, and quiet the servants,” said 
Mr. Bertram, in deep, stern tones of command. 
Then, his voice changing to one of concentrated an- 
guish as his eyes again sought the still form by 
which he was kneeling, he continued: 

“Genevieve may not be dead. I think I feel her 
heart fluttering feebly. Have restoratives brought 
as speedily as possible.” 

Viola ran to her apartment and soon returned, 
bringing hartshorn, camphor and cologne. The 
former was applied to the delicate nostrils, the white 
face was bathed with cold water and a handkerchief 
bound tightly around the wound, which was found 
to be in the right arm, and thus the flow of blood 
was arrested. The maiden slowly revived. The 
agonized man bending over her chafed her cold 
hands, pressed kiss after kiss upon her ashen lips, 
and breathed the wildest prayers over her prostrate 
figure. The maniac, whom Victor had released (he 
took care to retain possession of the dagger, which 
he had picked up from the floor where it had fallen) 
retreated to a distant corner of the room, muttering 
between her clenched teeth: 

“Thus perish all who remind me of the unhappy 
past — thus perish all who remind me of Lilian St. 
Julian.” 


1 68 


GENEVIEVE 


Her words fell upon her mother’s ears, and Mrs. 
Bertram said, in a voice of anguish: 

“My unhappy child, what evil fate gave you 
egress from the turret-chamber?” 

The maniac laughed a dull, mirthless laugh, and 
on Genevieve’s evincing further symptoms of re- 
turning consciousness, was led away by her brother 
to her own chamber in the lofty West Tower. Gene- 
vieve was conveyed to her apartment, where anima- 
tion was soon restored, and she was able to give 
an accurate account of what had transpired. When 
she had finished her recital Mrs. Bertram adminis- 
tered a narcotic and left her in charge of Viola and 
the two sable attendants, while she repaired to the 
library and repeated the story to her son, who 
had gone thither after carefully securing his sister 
in her prison chamber. Victor Fairmont dressed 
himself and descended to the parlor, where he was 
shortly joined by Mrs. Bertram, who explained to 
him what had occurred, awakening in his bosom the 
delicious hope that Genevieve might indeed be his 
sister, though as yet he locked the secret in his own 
breast. 

Mr. Bertram, after the departure of his mother, 
ascended the stairs and seated himself in a chair 
near the door of our heroine’s apartment, keeping 
his lonely vigil until dawn. Viola flitted occa- 
sionally to him and gave information of the suf- 
ferer, who slept tranquilly after the opiate had 
taken effect. His prayers in her behalf went up, 
like the odor of sweet incense, to the throne of 
God. The family — for we will hereafter class Mr. 
Fairmont among them — with the exception of the 
wounded maiden, assembled around the breakfast 


THE MANIAC’S DAGGER 


169 


table, and Viola was plied with questions, which she 
answered to the satisfaction of all. Genevieve was 
pronounced much better and there was little inflam- 
mation about her wound, which had proven to be 
but a slight one. When the meal was nearly com- 
pleted old Clarinda entered the room, an expres- 
sion of mingled grief and terror upon her sable 
face. Mrs. Bertram, with her usual quick percep- 
tion, noticed her servant’s agitation and exclaimed 
in alarm: 

“Something has happened. What is the matter, 
Clarinda? Is Genevieve worse?” 

“No, marm. Leastways, if she is, I dunno it. I 
hain’t been dere, but,” — and she advanced to her 
mistress’ side and whispered in her ear, — “Miss 
Marion, she’s lyin’ quiet-like and won’t take no 
coffee nor nuffin. She looks strange or nat’ral-like, 
I dunno .which. Anyhow, she don’t look like her- 
self. She is a-talkin’ like other folks an’ order me 
fur to tell y’all — all of you — fur to come up; she’s 
got somet’ing ’stonishing fur to tell you afore she 
dies.” 

Mrs. Bertram pressed her hand upon her heart, 
and, turning to the others, said in a hollow voice: 

“My unhappy daughter has summoned us all to 
her bedside. She has a revelation to make. I fear 
the shock of last night has almost sundered the ties 
that bind her to earth. Oh, God! what if my poor 
child should die?” 

Proceeding to her own apartment, followed by 
the group, from whom she no longer attempted to 
conceal the existence of her insane daughter, she 
advanced to the head of a bed and, touching a se- 


170 


GENEVIEVE 


cret spring in the wall, revealed a hitherto unseen 
door, which flew open and permitted them to ascend 
a dark and narrow staircase, which led the way to 
the gloomy West Tower. By this means intercourse 
had been held with the prisoner for long and dreary 
years, none suspecting her existence except the 
mother, the brother and the faithful slave. The 
other servants believed that the unhappy one had 
mysteriously vanished years and years before the 
opening of our story. The grand spiral staircase 
connected the first, second and third halls, and there 
had once been a room in the latter that communi- 
cated with the West Tower, but it had long been 
effectually closed. None knew how the maniac had 
escaped, a strict watch ever having been kept over 
the door opening into the secret stairway and the 
key ever being in the possession of Mrs. Bertram 
or the trustworthy Clarinda. There were two 
apartments in the West Tower, used, respectively, 
as parlor and sleeping apartment. The former, to 
which our party was conducted, though diminutive, 
was furnished with Oriental magnificence. A Turk- 
ish carpet covered the floor; chairs, divans and otto- 
mans of rosewood, with richly embroidered velvet 
seats, were grouped about the room. A harp as 
mute as the one that hung on Tara’s halls was lying 
in a state of sad neglect upon a silken cushion, gor- 
geous with its adornments of scarlet and gold. Pic- 
tures representing beautiful landscapes were artis- 
tically arranged upon the walls, and books, elegantly 
bound and illustrated, were scattered hither and 
thither in disuse and confusion, while statuettes 
peeped from nooks and corners, as if earnestly re- 


THE MANIAC’S DAGGER 


171 

garding the intruders. Near a window was placed 
a small circular rosewood table, with its spotless 
cloth, its dainty transparent china plate, cup and 
saucer, its pitcher of golden cream and dish of 
golden butter. The morning sunlight falling 
through a dormer window upon the glittering china 
service gave it all the sparkling beauty of diamonds, 
all the variegated hues of the rainbow. Everything 
that love could imagine, that wealth could bestow, 
was gathered into these small apartments with the 
hope of making captivity endurable to the hapless 
lady, whose former wonderful beauty and intellect 
had been the theme of admiring conversation among 
earls and dukes of Britain’s realm. 

Mrs. Bertram, who had entered the bedchamber 
of her daughter, presently came to the door and 
beckoned the party thither. On a rosewood frame 
richly ornamented with carved work in the shape of 
grapevines, with their drooping clusters of fruit, en- 
twining tendrils and well-shaped leaves, propped 
by downy pillows, her figure partly concealed by a 
satin coverlid, upon which delicate pink rosebuds, 
with their accompanying stems and green leaves 
were elegantly embroidered, reclined the shadow of 
the once beauteous Marion Bertram, the pride and 
delight of happy parents, the worshipped sister of 
an affectionate brother. Her face was ghastly pale 
and her form fearfully emaciated. Her eyes were 
sunken in their sockets and underlined by dark semi- 
circles, while her lips and cheeks were as bloodless 
as those of a corpse. But, wonderful to relate, rea- 
son had again resumed the throne which had so 
long been abdicated and was swaying her potent 
sceptre over the mind that had been groping in the 


172 


GENEVIEVE 


darkness for years. A clear light shone in her 
bright black eyes, and it was evident to all that a 
complete mental transformation had taken place 
within the last few hours. As her friends entered 
she raised one attenuated finger and enumerated 
them. 

“This,” she said, “is Viola Clayborne, of whom 
old Clarinda has babbled to me, and that is my 
dear brother, and the other is Victor Fairmont, as 
they call him; but where is Genevieve? Tell me, 
my mother, where is she? Did I destroy her young 
life? Oh, my God, grant that she still lives — that 
another victim has not fallen by my blood-stained 
hand!” 

“She lives, my daughter, and is scarcely hurt,” 
replied Mrs. Bertram. 

“Let her be summoned hither then. I have joy- 
ful news for her, if she is the daughter of Walter 
and Lilian. Go, my brother, and bring her to my 
bedside, for I have a restitution to make to her and 
ere the sun set my pulses will be still and my spirit 
will be in another clime. My past life lies before 
me like an unfolded scroll. Thank God that I am 
sane at last and able to undo some of my crimes.” 

Mr. Bertram hesitated, fearing to tax our 
heroine’s strength, but the invalid urged: 

“Go, dear Vivian; she loves and will obey you, 
and you love her, for I have stood by your bedside 
night after night and heard you murmur her name 
in tones of passionate endearment.” 

“Come, Cousin Vivian,” said Viola, “I will go 
with you and assist you in bringing my patient.” 

They left the room together and soon reached 
Genevieve’s door. Mr. Bertram paused while Viola 


THE MANIAC’S DAGGER 


i73 


entered, explaining quietly to her cousin the impera- 
tive necessity which demanded her presence in the 
West Tower. Genevieve, comprehending that she 
was to learn something of deep import, arose and 
with Viola’s assistance dressed herself for the in- 
terview. When she reached the door Mr. Bertram 
tenderly inquired after her health, and, placing his 
strong arm around her, supported her to the apart- 
ment where he had left his mother, sister and Vic- 
tor Fairmont. Every heart throbbed with painful 
expectation. 

“Be seated, friends,” said Miss Bertram in meas- 
ured tones. “I have much to say and you will tire 
standing.” 

Steadily regarding our heroine, she commenced 
her story. 

“Years ago,” she said, “I was sent to England 
by my indulgent parents to complete an education 
which had begun and progressed somewhat at home 
under their superintendence. When my collegiate 
course was completed I returned, bringing with me 
my orphan cousin, Lilian Montrose, the only daugh- 
ter of my mother’s elder brother. His wife had 
long been dead, and my uncle in his last moments 
appointed my mother guardian of his idolized child. 
Lilian and I were inseparable friends. We loved 
each other with all the devotion of sisters, and for 
months our lives glided on like a smoothly flowing 
current. But on a stormy afternoon an artist was 
belated in the neighborhood and came to this house 
for shelter. That night he was attacked by a raging 
fever, the result of his exposure to the inclement 
weather, and for days was confined to his room. 
After the disease was conquered he still remained 


i?4 


GENEVIEVE 


during the period of convalescence. At first he 
seemed more attracted to me than to Lilian, and I 
loved him wildly, madly, desperately, with all the 
strength of my fierce Southern nature. He was 
handsome, noble, aristocratic, — in fact, all that my 
fancy had painted the man for whom I was to for- 
sake father, mother and brother. The very ardor 
of my affection frightened him away, and he learned 
to love Lilian. They were soon plighted to each 
other and received my parents’ blessing, while I 
concealed my hidden grief with all the heroism of 
the Spartan boy and forced smiles and gay words 
of congratulation to my lips. In the early spring 
they were united and started on a wedding tour to 
Niagara and the Great Lakes. An incipient mad- 
ness was creeping over me; and when Lilian came 
back and gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, when 
I beheld the caresses lavished upon mother and child 
by the man I loved, it came near being developed, 
and I swore to wreak a terrible vengeance upon 
them. But with all the cunning of insanity I con- 
cealed my affliction from my unsuspecting parents. 
Walter and Lilian departed for their beautiful home 
near New Orleans, and for nearly two years I saw 
them not. They came again, however, on a visit to 
my mother, and when I witnessed their devotion to 
each other, their unabated affection, my last ray of 
reason was extinguished and the blackness of dark- 
ness brooded over my mind. I resolved upon a 
deadly deed, and, to accomplish it, purloined one of 
my father’s pistols. One night Walter, Lilian, my 
father and my mother were seated in the great 
drawing-room, and, fired by my purpose, wild with 
excitement, I entered, the pistol concealed in the 


THE MANIAC’S DAGGER 


i75 


folds of my dress. The evening passed quietly 
away and I began to think that I would have to de- 
fer my revenge until another time. Just then Walter 
stooped over Lilian and playfully kissed the babe 
while he toyed with her curls. Wild, maddened, I 
drew the pistol and aimed it at him. My father 
was watching me, and, comprehending in a moment 
my determination, interposed his body between me 
and my intended victim. The pistol was discharged, 
the ball pierced the brave and noble heart of my 
precious father, and the red blood spouted from 
the fearful, fatal wound. That night after I had 
been, as they thought, secured in my mother’s room, 
I made my escape by touching the secret spring, 
which I had discovered by accident. I climbed the 
dark stairway, entered the West Tower, passed 
through it into a narrow opening, from which steps 
descended to the third hall; then I came down by 
the main staircase, entered Lilian’s room and stole 
her sleeping babe from her side, while she and the 
nurse slept, and while her husband watched with my 
mother by the corpse of my father in the great 
drawing-room below where he had been slain. 

u With noiseless steps I crept down the last flight 
of stairs, through the window of the library, out 
into the veranda, down into the yard, through the 
great gate, which had been left open for the con- 
venience of the hurrying throng of servants who 
were being dispatched hither and thither; and, once 
free of the house, I sped away with the infant into 
the woods and finally came to a Gipsy encampment. 
By one of the large fires I found a solitary woman, 
an old fortune-teller, to whom I exhibited the child. 
She offered to buy it, saying that she could dispose 


176 


GENEVIEVE 


of it at a great price to persons of affluence. I 
refused to receive money for the infant, but freely 
gave it to her, commanding he-r to bear it away 
where its parents might never again behold it. She 
promised, and ere I permitted her to depart I 
branded with a red-hot cross and star, taken from 
my necklace and bracelet, scars of the same shape 
upon the babe’s delicate throat and wrist. He 
screamed frightfully, but I had provided myself 
with a bottle of laudanum and I hastened to admin- 
ister a dose. He soon slept and I stole back home 
ere daylight. 

“The gate was open as I had left it and I entered 
the house by the same way that I had made my exit 
from it, crept up the winding staircase to the third 
hall, then proceeded to the West Tower, from 
which I descended to my mother’s apartment, where 
I, was found an hour afterward a raving, dangerous 
maniac. On the afternoon of that day I was im- 
prisoned in the West Tower, but on the very first 
night of my confinement I found a rusty and dis- 
used key in a pile of rubbish which had not been 
removed. It fitted the lock exactly, having formerly 
belonged to it, and, having been mislaid, another 
had been procured. Provided, therefore, with the 
key and fully understanding the secret spring, with 
which I had become acquainted in my girlhood with- 
out my mother’s knowledge, I was able to roam over 
the house at will. 

“Walter and Lilian, not dreaming that I had ab- 
sented myself on the night that their babe was 
stolen, never associated me with its disappearance, 
and, believing me to be securely confined, came back 
again, after having been engaged in a fruitless 


THE MANIAC’S DAGGER 177 


search for the lost baby. Here Lilian gave birth to 
her second child, a girl; but I was prostrated by 
physical debility at that time and wholly unable to 
leave my bed. They went away and I never saw 
them again, but when my health returned I resumed 
my wanderings, sometimes even extending them to 
the forest. When Genevieve came and was shown 
to her apartment I chanced to be there and extin- 
guished her lamp, as she remembers. Her face 
seemed familial* to me; it reminded me of Lilian, 
and I desired to slay her. 

‘‘Burning with revenge and armed with a dagger, 
which I had on a previous occasion found un- 
sheathed in my brother’s secretary and abstracted 
therefrom, I once entered her apartment, but an 
invisible power forbade the deed and left her un- 
harmed. Last night when I sought his apartment,” 
pointing to Victor, “I was not aware that it was 
occupied, and when I beheld him at first I little 
dreamed in my madness that he was the son of 
Walter and Lilian. But as I approached nearer I 
saw that the stranger’s face in its deep repose was 
wonderfully like that of the man I loved, and 
eagerly but carefully searching for the cross and the 
star, I found them both as vivid as when first 
branded there. 

“There is another thing that I have omitted to 
mention, but would like to explain. On the first 
night of Genevieve’s arrival — perhaps early, per- 
haps late, I know not — I gave vent to a wild cry, 
which doubtless startled the household. The cause 
of that alarm was this : I was standing by a window 
in one of the apartments on the third floor, which 


178 


GENEVIEVE 


I had opened for the purpose of gazing out on the 
dreary night, there being a fascination about gloomy 
scenes to me that was almost irresistible, when I 
beheld a woman clad in black descend the steps of 
the veranda adjoining the library, and speed away 
into the darkness. A strange, sickening sensation 
crept over me. I felt that I must endeavor by some 
means to make known her presence. The family 
retired; everything became silent in the house, but 
I watched until my limbs were benumbed with cold. 
My vigils were rewarded by seeing the black-draped 
figure glide from the shrubbery between the wall and 
the lake, and come stealthily in the direction of the 
house. I believed her to be leagued with the powers 
of darkness; I feared that she would injure my dear 
Vivian. My impulse was to frighten her away, for, 
you perceive, there can be method in madness; so 
I waved my arms, swayed my white-robed figure to 
and fro, and gave vent to that wild scream. She 
turned and fled precipitately, and I never saw her 
more. In a few moments I heard footsteps ascend- 
ing the stairs, and creeping to the banisters, I looked 
over them. My brother stood at Genevieve’s door, 
endeavoring to calm the frightened girl. Oh, how 
I longed to speak to him, to tell him the cause of 
my alarm, to warn him of impending danger, but I 
feared the effect of revealing my presence. I knew 
I would be again locked up in the Tower, the key 
would be discovered on my person and precautions 
taken to prevent a repetition of my nocturnal wan- 
derings.” 

The speaker ceased and gasped for breath. Mrs. 
Bertram sank on her knees, clasping the hand of 


THE MANIAC’S DAGGER 


179 


her child, her form convulsed by a terrible emo- 
tion. Mr. Bertram’s face was hidden, but a mighty 
grief was sweeping over his soul. Tears stood in 
the calm brown eyes of Victor Fairmont, while 
Genevieve and Viola sobbed aloud in the abandon- 
ment of sorrow. The orphan and her brother had 
been regarding each other in amazement, scarcely 
daring to cherish the wild, delicious hope that had 
sprung up in their bosoms; but when the dying 
woman ceased and the conviction forced itself upon 
them that she was rapidly passing away, their undi- 
vided attention was directed to her. After a brief 
pause she continued: 

“Farewell, Victor and Genevieve St. Julian. A 
few more vibrations of the pendulum of time and my 
soul will be in eternity. Farewell, Viola Clayborne; 
may your love console the man I have so wronged, 
and may you plead with him for my forgiveness. 
Farewell, dear brother; God grant that in the com- 
ing years you may atone to Genevieve by a heart’s 
noble devotion for the injuries which she has sus- 
tained at my hands.” 

Mr. Bertram advanced to the bedside and, lean- 
ing over, pressed a long, loving kiss upon the pale, 
cold lips. 

“Farewell, sweet mother, true friend, wise coun- 
selor,” resumed the hapless lady. “My spirit will 
soon be in the realms of the blest. God will not hold 
me accountable for my crimes. I am fading, fading; 
kiss me, mother.” 

Mrs. Bertram shrieked wildly as she gave the cov- 
eted kiss; then, her sense forsaking her, she fell 
prostrate upon the carpeted floor. A spasm con- 


i8o 


GENEVIEVE 


tracted the face of the dying woman, a slender crim- 
son stream issued from her mouth, the death sweat 
gathered on her marble brow, her glazing eyes were 
turned upon her brother; then her jaws relaxed; the 
death rattle sounded in her throat, the death-struggle 
shook her slender frame, and all was still. Marion 
Bertram was dead. 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE MAN IN THE MIST 

A matchless pair 

With equal virtues form'd, and equal grace; 

The same distinguished by their sex alone; 

Hers the mild radiance of the blooming morn, 

And his the radiance of the risen day. 

— Thompson . 

Nature herself started back when thou wert born 
And cried. The work’s not mine. 

— Lee’s CEdipus. 

Late in the afternoon Mrs. Bertram, who had 
lain in a fearful syncope for hours, recovered and 
dispatched a messenger for Genevieve. The remains 
of Marion Bertram, in accordance with her broth- 
er’s directions, were conveyed to the large drawing- 
room and placed upon a couch draped in mourning. 
Our heroine and Viola had prepared the body for 
the grave; the former entirely forgetful of her 
wound. Viola, following a custom prevalent among 
the English nobility, induced her cousin, who pre- 
ferred simplicity, to agree that Miss Bertram should 
be robed in a shroud of great magnificence. Ac- 
cordingly, the pale corpse was clad in costly satin, a 
tiara of diamonds rested upon her pallid brow, and 
181 


182 


GENEVIEVE 


bracelets of the same sparkling stones were upon 
her slender wrists. A metallic coffin had been or- 
dered from Columbia, and nothing now remained 
to be done except to convey the child of an unhappy 
fate to her last resting place. The servants, awe- 
struck and full of sympathy, were permitted to en- 
ter and behold her of whose very existence many of 
them had never heard. 

Victor and Genevieve had shunned each other all 
day fearing that there might be some error, scarcely 
daring to believe that the bond of so near and dear 
a relationship existed between them. In reality they 
did not know how to regard each other. It was 
therefore a relief to our heroine when she was sum- 
moned to the presence of her aunt, — who, she hoped, 
had something to communicate. Mr. Bertram was 
already in the room, and when his cousin entered he 
arose to withdraw, but his mother requested him 
to remain. 

u My dear niece,” said the lady, “now that my 
daughter is dead, like David, I will endeavor to 
compose myself and grieve no more, for my agony 
cannot be beneficial to her, but my silence may be 
detrimental to your happiness and to that of the 
young man whom she affirmed to be your brother.” 

“Thank you, dear aunt,” replied the orphan, “for 
the deep interest which you have ever manifested in 
my welfare. My heart has indeed been oscillating 
between hope and fear ever since the revelation was 
made to me, and I shall be thankful if you can re- 
lieve me of this great suspense.” 

“Tell me, Genevieve, does your own heart claim 
affinity with his? In other words, do you feel for 
him a sisterly affection?” 


THE MAN IN THE MIST 183 

“Yes, madam! I loved him from the first as only 
a sister could love a brother.” 

Mrs. Bertram motioned to her son, who touched 
a silver bell and soon old Clarinda made her ap- 
pearance. 

“Dear aunt,” said Genevieve, who noticed her 
bodily exhaustion, “do not exert yourself too much. 
I fear that the excitement you are undergoing will 
have an injurious effect upon you.” 

“My happiness consists in beholding that of oth- 
ers,” replied the lady, who then dispatched the ser- 
vant for Mr. Fairmont and Miss Clayborne. They 
presently came and Mrs. Bertram inquired: 

“Mr. Fairmont, is there anything in your posses- 
sion which would enable you to identify yourself as 
the lost brother of my niece?” 

At the same moment Genevieve drew from her 
neck the gold medallion presented to her by her par- 
ents. It was instantaneously recognized by Victor, 
who sprang to his feet, exclaiming: 

“Genevieve, how did you gain possession of the 
treasure which I have so sacredly guarded for 
years?” 

“It is mine,” replied our heroine, “it was pur- 
chased for me by my mother and contains the minia- 
tures of her and my father. She thought that it 
might enable me at some time to identify my 
brother.” 

“And I have the counterpart,” declared the young 
man, taking it from her and earnestly regarding 
the pictured faces. “And these are my parents, 
my dear father and mother, only looking a little 
older and more careworn. Oh, my dear sister, this 


GENEVIEVE 


184 

is indeed a wonderful interposition of an omnipotent 
Providence in our behalf.” 

He would have embraced Genevieve, but she 
gently resisted, beseeching him to exhibit his me- 
dallion. 

“I cannot,” he answered regretfully. “It is now 
in the possession of my foster-mother, who resides 
in New York, but,” — and his face brightened, — “I 
will go to Columbia and write for it immediately, 
and also for a bundle of infant clothes that were left 
in her hands at the same time and for a written 
account of my purchase from the old woman who 
dwelt at the Five Points.” 

u Ah,” exclaimed Genevieve, “my parents were not 
mistaken then in their supposition that the child 
whose purchase from an inhabitant of the Five 
Points was mentioned among the news items of a 
New York paper was indeed their lost, their la- 
mented boy.” 

Ere Mr. Fairmont could reply Mrs. Bertram said 
in an interrogative tone : 

“So there was a bundle of infant clothes, was 
there?” 

The young man replied in the affirmative and 
longed to embrace his sister, but Genevieve did not 
wish the shadow of a doubt to rest upon their happi- 
ness and begged him to refrain until the certainty 
was established. 

On the third day after the death of the unhappy 
scion of a noble house a splendid hearse, drawn by 
horses of midnight hue, richly caparisoned in black 
velvet, was ordered from Glenville to convey her 
remains to the grave in the forest-glen. There she 
was buried and a magnificent monument reared to 


THE MAN IN THE MIST 


185 


her memory. While Genevieve sadly watched them 
those exquisite verses of Gray’s Elegy occurred to 
her mind. 

“The boast of Heraldry, the pomp of Power, 

And all that Beauty, all that Wealth e’er gave, 

Await alike th’ inevitable hour. 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

“Can storied urn or animated bust, 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 

Can Honor’s voice provoke the silent dust, 

Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?” 

The return to the mansion was painful to every- 
body. The rooms seemed more desolate, the corri- 
dors more deserted than ever; but hope had erected 
a rosy bower in four hearts, at least, and she sat as 
queen-regent upon her throne. 

About the expiration of the second w r eek there 
came a letter from Victor Fairmont, who had pro- 
ceeded to the City of Oaks immediately after the 
burial, announcing that he was in hourly expectation 
of the arrival of the package by mail, having re- 
ceived a letter informing him that it had been for- 
warded. He stated further that he would be with 
them some time during the ensuing week. Accord- 
ingly, ere five days had elapsed he returned to the 
Vale, bringing his treasures. One by one they were 
exhibited, — the medallion containing the two pic- 
tures and the crimson merino dress and sacque em- 
broidered with black silk. As these latter objects 
met Mrs. Bertram’s view she exclaimed: 

“Ah, yes, there is now no doubt in my mind! I 
would know Lilian’s handiwork anywhere in the 
world. How well do I remember the pride and 


1 86 


GENEVIEVE 


pleasure she evinced while fashioning these garments 
for her baby boy. And the night of his abduction, 
owing to the confusion consequent upon the sudden 
decease of my husband, he was not disrobed, but 
was permitted to fall asleep in the garments that 
he had worn during the day.” 

Mr. Fairmont then read aloud the letter that he 
had received from his foster-parents. It ran thus : 

“Our dear adopted son : We will cheerfully aid you by every 
means in our power to establish your claim to an honorable 
parentage, and we will heartily rejoice if you can prove your 
identity to the lost brother of the lovely lady whom you men- 
tioned in your letter. We send you the gold medallion and 
chain, the former containing, as we have always supposed, the 
pictures of your parents. We purchased you over twenty-one 
years ago from a miserable old creature, who resided, — only 
temporarily, however, — at the Five Points, New York. You 
were then between one and two years old. She positively 
refused to give any information concerning your parents, saying 
that you were a legitimate child and belonged to a wealthy and 
honorable family. We desired her to furnish us with something 
which might be hereafter a clue to your birth. She reluctantly 
consented, taking from a bundle which contained her own clothes 
a crimson merino dress and sacque, those that we now send to 
you. We required her to swear upon the Holy Book that they 
were your garments and she did so, stating that you were clothed 
in them when you first came into her possession. She acci- 
dently revealed the medallion and chain, to which it was at- 
tached, while unrolling the bundle. It flew open, upon the 
spring being touched, disclosing the faces of a gentleman and 
lady; and the woman, upon being closely questioned, admitted 
that they might be pictures of your parents, but declared that 
she could not positively assert it as she had never seen them. 
She informed us, however, that you wore the chain and medallion 
around your neck on the night of your abduction, for she acknowl- 
edged that you had been stolen, though not by her. The woman 
was either a Gipsy or an Indian; it was impossible to tell which. 
She soon vanished, and we have never beheld her since that day. 
We shortly after embarked for Europe, where you received your 
education and where we remained until last autumn. If you are 
able to claim Miss St. Julian as a sister, bring her to us at once 


THE MAN IN THE MIST 


187 


that we may adopt her as a daughter. Your kindred shall ever 
find a welcome beneath our roof. We expect in the event of 
our death to bequeath to you our entire fortune and you shall 
hereafter, as you have hitherto done, receive from us regularly 
an annuity to be expended as you desire. Present our regards to 
Miss Clayborne, with whom we are well pleased, and gratify us 
by acquainting us as speedily as possible with all that is of 
interest to you. 

“Your affectionate foster-parents, 

“Lucien and Lucia Fairmont. 

t 

“Post Scriptum : We omitted to mention that when you 
came to us, a bright and beautiful babe, you bore on your 
throat a scar in the shape of a cross, and on your right wrist 
another in the form of a star. They were of a vivid red color 
and looked as if they had been branded there. 

“L. & L. F.” 

When this letter was finished the brother and sis- 
ter folded each other in a close embrace, and while 
the tears rained down their cheeks Victor mur- 
mured: 

“My darling, I knew that some unseen electric 
wire united our hearts, — that some hidden messenger 
was ever hurrying from one to the other, weaving 
ties which not even the hand of death can sever.” 

When tranquillity had been in a measure restored 
Victor drew another missive from his pocket and 
presented it to Genevieve. It was from the landlady 
of the Rising Star, the name of the little inn at 
Spring Vale. In it was enclosed another and our 
heroine recognized with a strange thrill the super- 
scription of her father. The landlady wrote : 

“My dear Miss Genevieve: I have embraced the present 
opportunity of dispatching to you the letter which your kind 
father wrote and placed in my hands a few hours before his 
death. He bade me keep it until he should be gone and then 
give it to you. I fully intended to obey, and hurried to my 
room to put it in a bureau drawer for safe keeping. In the con- 


1 8 8 


GENEVIEVE 


fusion that attended upon your father’s death I forgot to deliver 
it to you, and I may add truthfully that I forgot its existence 
entirely. By some means or other it fell behind the drawer, and 
there it might have remained for ages if I had not had the 
drawer removed for the purpose of having the lock repaired. 
When I discovered the letter my regret knew no bounds, and I 
sincerely hope you will pardon me for my negligence. I learned 
last night, by accident, that the young stranger who came to my 
inn for a night’s lodging and whom I remembered to have seen 
here before was on his way to Glenville and would be the 
bearer of my letter. With many kind wishes for your health, 
happiness, and prosperity, 

“I am, yours respectfully, 

“Fannie Browne.” 

The letter of Mr. St. Julian or Mr. De Vere, as 
he was called, was a reiteration of Miss Bertram’s 
story, with this exception: He knew nothing of her 
share in the abduction of his son and accused only 
the old Gipsy fortune teller. He gave her a com- 
plete history of his and her mother’s lives from the 
beginning. He had been bereft of father and mother 
in infancy, had possessed a considerable fortune 
which he had expended, together with her mother’s, 
in the vain search for the missing child. He gave 
the same reasons for having taken the name of De 
Vere that Mrs. Bertram had advanced, stating that 
his only object in concealing his real name from her 
was fearing that she might accidentally divulge it if 
she were aware of it to prevent the possibility of a 
revelation which might interfere with or injure his 
plans for the recovery of his lost boy. In con- 
clusion, he earnestly enjoined upon his daughter to 
seek her aunt, Mrs. Bertram, who he felt satisfied 
would welcome her as a niece. 

“Such sad remembrances cluster around the 
Vale,” he wrote, “that, although I have longed to 


THE MAN IN THE MIST 


189 


visit it, yet I have not dared to do so, lest my shat- 
tered nerves should sustain too great a shock. When 
I first came to Spring Vale it was my intention to 
proceed to Glenville, and thence to the Vale of 
Gloom, that I might present you to your aunt, but I 
soon found that my frame was too enfeebled to ad- 
mit of the rough journey, and knowing the distance 
to be short and that you can easily find your way 
there, I die in peace, believing that I leave in safe 
and tender guardianship my beloved daughter. Oh, 
Genevieve, my darling, as much as lies in your 
power, make amends to your aunt for the great 
wrong which I unwittingly did her; in other words, 
atone to her for my and your mother’s share in 
bringing on the unhappy fate of her beautiful child. 
I go to join my precious Lilian, who has long 
awaited my coming, and hoping and trusting that 
you will find your brother, I yield up my life without 
a murmur.” 

Genevieve, too much agitated herself, permitted 
her brother to read these letters aloud, and when he 
had finished there were more kisses and embraces, 
and Viola, smiling through her tears, inquired: 

“Which shall it be, Victor, or Clarence, the name 
of the babe when it was stolen?” 

“Victor,” replied the young man, “since I am ac- 
customed to it; but I shall certainly resume the sur- 
name of St. Julian.” 

“I scarcely dared to hope that such happiness was 
in store for me,” declared Genevieve. “My dear 
brother, why did you not communicate the history 
of your life long ago? We might have made this 
delightful discovery ourselves and not have post- 
poned our joy until this late day.” 


igo 


GENEVIEVE 


“I was so blessed with the love of my foster- 
parents,” replied Victor, “that had not they them- 
selves informed me, I would never have known but 
that they were in reality my father and mother. It 
was my intention to tell the lady whom I should 
select as a wife, believing that I would be doing 
her an injustice in keeping it concealed; but I 
had fully resolved never to mention it to any other 
person. I was actuated by motives of pride and 
regard for my foster-parents, who desired me to be 
considered their son. I fully believed, though, and 
so did my friends, that I was of honorable birth 
and that I had been stolen from respectable parents. 
And now, my dear Mrs. Bertram, or my dear aunt, 
as I have the right to say, I wish to deprive you of 
two of your treasures,” looking at Viola and Gene- 
vieve, “as soon as possible, at the same time being 
anxious to pay all due respect to the memory of my 
deceased cousin.” 

“Nay,” safcPMr. Bertram, advancing to our hero- 
ine’s side and taking her hand, “the delightful privi- 
lege of advancing a prior and superior claim to your 
second treasure is mine. I see no reason for de- 
ferring our marriage, and, with my mother’s con- 
sent, I will urge Genevieve to appoint an early 
day.” 

The maiden blushed deeply and retired behind 
her aunt. Mr. Bertram followed and again taking 
her hand insisted that she should comply with his 
wishes. 

“Oh, Mr. Bertram,” she answered, “I — I have 
never thought of — of getting married. It is too early 
after our sad bereavement.” 

“Nay, my dear,” said Mrs. Bertram, “I would 


THE MAN IN THE MIST 


191 

have been rejoiced if you and my son could have 
been united on the day that my daughter died.” 

“Why do you persist in saying Mr. Bertram, 
Genevieve ?” questioned Viola. “Why not call him 
Cousin Vivian as I do?” 

“I cannot,” was the low reply. 

“Genevieve does not like me,” said Mr. Bertram 
teasingly. 

“I do not think she likes you as well as I do,” 
smiled Viola. “At any rate, I once promised to 
marry you and that is something that you have never 
prevailed upon her to do yet.” 

Our heroine softly left the room and stole out 
into the grounds. Seeing old Oscar at the gate, she 
desired him to open it and permit her to walk out- 
side. At that moment Viola, who had followed, 
emerged into view and perceiving her cousin’s in- 
tention joined her. The two girls then started on 
a ramble to the graveyard, — our heroine fearing 
nothing, now that Stella Lorraine /as dead, except 
the forbidding aspect of the old witch, and scarcely 
fearing that since Mr. Bertram had said the crea- 
ture was so feeble. He had also conveyed the idea 
that she was harmless. They had not proceeded 
very far when they were overtaken by a man, who 
emerged from the same thicket near the little spring 
where Stella Lorraine had been concealed on the 
memorable morning that she had made an attempt 
upon our heroine’s life. The man was fearful to 
behold, and the girls were badly frightened; but not 
wishing to appear so, and scarcely knowing what 
they were doing, they walked on rapidly in the direc- 
tion of the graveyard. When they accelerated their 
speed the man increased his; when they retarded 


192 


GENEVIEVE 


theirs he diminished his. It may not be amiss to 
give a description of the monster who thus dogged 
their footsteps. He was dwarfish in stature, with a 
huge lump of deformity upon his shoulders, b.ut he 
was of a massive and powerful frame; his features 
were coarse, brutal and bloated; his eyes were green 
and like a rat’s in cunning; his teeth were yellow and 
sharp like the fangs of a serpent, and his mouth was 
constantly open, the tongue protruding and the 
saliva dribbling like an idiot’s. Fiery shocks of hair 
covered his tremendous head, and the two girls 
thought that they had never before seen a creature 
so utterly repulsive and disgusting. When they 
were some distance from the house the misshapen 
demon advanced to the side of Genevieve and in- 
quired in guttural tones : 

u Which of you is Miss De Vere?” 

Our heroine was horror-stricken at again hearing 
that question, and was totally unable to reply, but 
Viola, who had much presence of mind, replied 
haughtily : 

“Neither.” 

U I know better than that,” affirmed the modern 
Richard of Gloster. “I know which she is.” 

“What business have you with Miss De Vere?” 
questioned Viola, who had summoned all her forti- 
tude to her aid. 

“I’ll show you,” answered the man. 

He sprang toward our heroine, who was off her 
guard, and lifting her in his powerful arms, he 
started off at a brisk pace. Viola’s screams rang 
through the forest; the dwarf, fearing that she 
would alarm the inmates of the mansion and that he 
might be pursued and overtaken ere he had carried 


THE MAN IN THE MIST 


i93 


off his prize, released our heroine, at the same time 
commanding her to be quiet or suffer the penalty of 
death, and drawing a pistol from his breast-pocket 
aimed it at Viola, who was still standing where they 
had left her. Genevieve, preferring death to the 
companionship of the monster, whose soul was as 
hideous as his body, no sooner felt the relaxation of 
his grasp than she prepared for flight, and when he 
released her sped away like a hunted gazelle in the 
direction of her friend. A half-dozen pistol shots 
were discharged by the thwarted villain and rang 
out upon the solemn stillness, but his aim was not 
sure and the girls were unharmed, though fearfully 
agitated when Mr. Bertram and Victor St. Julian 
found them a moment later, having heard Viola’s 
wild screams and having hastened with all possible 
speed to the rescue. 

The dwarf, at sight of them, fled away into the 
woods, and was pursued by Mr. Bertram, who left 
Victor to guard the frightened girls. He presently 
returned, having failed to obtain a glimpse of the 
man after he had first vanished from view. The 
party slowly returned to the house, our heroine con- 
vinced that she still had enemies. The gentlemen, 
procuring horses, scoured the valley, but found no 
trace of the monster. They rode over to Glenville 
and Mr. Bertram left directions with everybody he 
chanced to see to give him any information that they 
might obtain of his whereabouts. The clouds hung 
darkly over the Vale, the castle was wrapped in 
mist and gloom, and ere the two reached home the 
rain began to descend. But until the wee hours a 
silent figure, that of the dwarf, hovered near the 
wall, his eyes fixed upon our heroine’s chamber. 


194 


GENEVIEVE 


The rain ceased, the mist thickened, but still the 
figure crouched, still the fiery eyes regarded the 
darkened room in the hope that its occupant might 
enter. He knew that she had not retired, for no 
light had glimmered through the blinds. Cursing 
his luck, he kicked a ladder lying concealed in the 
bushes with one huge, unshapely foot; then bestow- 
ing a last glance upon the frowning mansion, he 
hurried away muttering : 

“There is time enough. There’ll be a bonny wed- 
ding there some day, and then, — and then we’ll see 
who’ll claim the bonny bride.” 

At the supper-table after his return Mr. Bertram 
stated that he knew the man who had attempted the 
abduction of Genevieve. Said he : 

“His name is Ranald McEagh. He is a mason 
by trade and a few years ago repaired a portion of 
the wall around the grounds which had become 
dilapidated. He was a sullen fellow but worked 
well, and after receiving his pay went away, appar- 
ently perfectly satisfied.” 

When the family was about to retire for the night 
Viola insisted that Genevieve should thenceforth 
share her apartment, as she was too nervous to 
sleep alone. Mr. Bertram approved of the propo- 
sition and our heroine gladly acquiesced. Thus it 
was that the dwarf was a second time thwarted in 
his plans. 




CHAPTER XV 

MARRIAGE, LIFE OR DEATH 


Fair all the pageant — but how passing fair 
The slender form, which lay on couch of Ind ! 

O’er her white bosom strayed her hazel hair, 

Pale her dear cheek, as if for love she pined. 

— Scott’s “Lay of the Last Minstrel .” 

Like one within a charnel cast, 

I hear but dirges ringing for the dead — 

Walk all the time with hand in hand of Death. 

— Mrs. E. Oakes Smith. 

The end of July had now arrived, and our hero- 
ine after debating with herself for some time at 
length yielded to Mr. Bertram’s oft repeated en- 
treaty for an early marriage. They walked to- 
gether through the grounds one morning discover- 
ing new beauties in everything they beheld. Mr. 
Bertram had never before felt such an interest in 
the fine old mansion and its surroundings, and his 
anticipated union with his cousin gave a new im- 
petus to his plans and hopes for the improvement 
of his patrimony. They studied and arranged vari- 
ous methods for modernizing the castle. New wings 

195 


196 


GENEVIEVE 


were to be added with octagon-shaped apartments; 
balconies and piazzas were to be constructed; a 
conservatory was to be constructed and filled with 
the choicest exotics; an aquarium was suggested and 
agreed upon, and the house was to be remodeled 
and refurnished from turret to foundation-stone. 
In the grounds statues were to be grouped and flow- 
ers cultivated. A new bridge was to span the minia- 
ture lake and elegant little summer-houses were 
to be erected. Graceful vines were to be trained 
and a fish-pond dug, that the master and the mis- 
tress might gratify their love for the piscatorial 
exercise. The happy couple extended their walk to 
the rear of the mansion and regarded with new in- 
terest the sleek and indolent cows, — Durham, Ayr- 
shire and Devon, — that placidly ruminated in the 
cooling shade, with no earthly care (save the frolic- 
some calves) to destroy their appetites or to prevent 
digestion. Among them were strolling a few swine 
of the Essex species, apparently on good terms with 
the horned owners of the pasture and intent upon 
making a livelihood by their noses. 

Mr. Bertram proposed that he should fence in 
a park and import deer, white rabbits and so forth. 
Our heroine was delighted with the idea and felt 
that her greatest enjoyment would consist in faith- 
fully attending to the domestic duties that would de- 
volve upon her after the projected change. 

In the distance they beheld flocks of milk-white 
Cashmere goats and Spanish merino sheep browsing 
upon a plain covered with luxuriant vegetation. 
The young lambs and kids were gleefully skipping 
about, enjoying the fine morning air, and the shep- 
herd, with his crook and dog, was plainly to be 


MARRIAGE, LIFE OR DEATH 197 

seen. The crook was lying at full length upon the 
green grass and the dog was ever on the alert to 
protect and to defend his flock, as well as to keep 
order among its members. 

The silvery waters of the silent stream were also 
visible, and Mr. Bertram unfolded to Genevieve 
his plans for constructing a dam and thereby im- 
proving the argillaceous soil of a portion of his 
bottom land. Our heroine was an adept in the art 
of pleasing; she listened with interest and pleasure 
to his remarks, coincided with his views, flattered 
his judgment with adroitness; and Mr. Bertram was 
never in higher favor with himself than on that 
delightful morning which was ever afterward one 
of the greenest spots on the tablet of his memory. 

On their return they entered the garden, and 
after sufficiently admiring the variety and abund- 
ance of vegetables which it contained, they visited 
the bee-hives and watched the busy subjects of an 
absolute queen as they culled sweets from the 
neighboring orchard (which had been for years 
sadly neglected) and transferred them to their glass 
palaces, or wooden gums, as the case might be. In 
the tops of a few of the latter holes had been made 
and inverted glass preserving-jars had been placed 
over them. The bees, being of an aspiring dispo- 
sition, had ascended to these heights and had filled 
the transparent vessels with rows of beautiful sealed 
honey, some white, some golden. The dilapidated 
state of the orchard was commented upon, and Mr. 
Bertram proposed in the ensuing year both to en- 
graft and to procure scions from a celebrated nur- 
sery Pomaria, which deserved to be patronized by 
all fruit-growers. They did not omit to pay a visit 


198 


GENEVIEVE 


to the furnace, used for drying apples, peaches and 
so on. Our heroine manifested so much pleasure 
in his companionship and in beholding the various 
objects of interest which he had shown her that 
Mr. Bertram, completely bewitched by her radiant 
face, her bright eyes, from which the Promethean 
fire must have been stolen, and her fascinating man- 
ners, exclaimed: 

“Genevieve, my darling, I feel as if I had just 
commenced a new existence. My life shall hence- 
forth be devoted to making you happy. You shall 
be the sultana of my heart and I will be the most 
devoted of husbands. Everything that man can do 
for the woman he loves I will undertake to accom- 
plish for you. I feel as if a new lease of years had 
been granted to me. The world has become an Ar- 
cadian bower, — nay, more, a very Paradise; and 
my every hope of present and future happiness is 
centered in you, — the morning star of my existence, 
the crown of my manhood, the future dovelet of 
my lone domestic bower.” 

Ah, little did he dream that he would soon mourn 
in bitter anguish over his broken Lares and Pen- 
ates! Genevieve’s eyes filled with tears; her face 
glowed with a rapture unspeakable; she fully ap- 
preciated the noble nature of the man by her side; 
she knew that he loved her with a devotion incom- 
parable, and with pride, with pleasure, with delight, 
did she acknowledge him as lord of her heart. 

“Oh, sir,” she replied in tremulous tones, “I feel 
my utter unworthiness of such a blissful future as 
you have promised me. God grant that I may be 
elevated, ennobled, and in every way rendered 
worthy of your love.” 


MARRIAGE, LIFE OR DEATH 199 

“You are more than worthy,” exclaimed Mr. 
Bertram, imprisoning her hand in his firm, tender 
grasp. “You are to me an angel of beauty and pur- 
ity, — as far superior to me as the refulgent star to 
the humble glowworm. And now, little one, al- 
though I have prevailed upon you to hasten our 
wedding, yet you have never appointed the day. 
Grant me that favor ere we enter the house, I be- 
seech you.” 

After some hesitation our heroine named the first 
of September, which was declared to be an age by 
her impatient lover. Mrs. Bertram met them at 
the door, looking more youthful and smiling, not- 
withstanding her recent bereavement, than she had 
appeared at any previous time to the orphan. Mr. 
Bertram lifted his hat in graceful salutation, saying 
merrily: 

“My dear mother, you must have discovered the 
fountain of perpetual youth which Juan Ponce De 
Leon sought in vain. You look younger and lovelier 
than I have seen you in years.” 

The dimples played hide and seek on our hero- 
ine’s cheeks as the lady affectionately kissed her 
and declared her to be the dove of peace that had 
brought comfort to her home and contentment to 
her heart. 

Victor and Viola had passed the entire morning 
in the library, the former expatiating upon the joys 
that were soon to be theirs and depicting in glowing 
colors their future home. The young man held the 
girl’s soft white hand in his, now and then passing 
it caressingly across his face, and he kissed it time 
and again. 

“Dearest,” he playfully exclaimed, “would that 


200 


GENEVIEVE 


I could quaff the inspired waters of Castaly, I 
would devote my entire life in endeavoring to make 
all men aware of your transcendant beauty.” 

Viola laughed. 

u You would soon tire of such nonsense,” she re- 
plied, “especially iff the culinary department was 
not well attended to, and your meals not well pre- 
pared.” 

“Pshaw!” said Victor, making a grimace, “do 
not hint to me of such commonplace affairs. I shall 
live on the food of the gods, — nectar and am- 
brosia.” 

“And pray,” questioned the maiden, “by what 
shall my life be sustained, since I am of the earth, 
earthy, and require something more substantial than 
did the denizens of Mount Olympus?” 

“Ah,” rejoined he, “you shall be fed with dainty 
bits of nightingales’ tongues.” 

“I perceive, Victor,” declared the maiden, “that 
you intend to perish me.” 

Mr. Bertram and Genevieve making their ap- 
pearance at that moment, the conversation was in- 
terrupted; and when Victor became aware that they 
were to be united on the first of September he urged 
Viola to become his wife on the same day. The sly 
girl, with much show of reluctance, though in real- 
ity highly pleased, consented. 

The following week the gentlemen accompanied 
the ladies to Columbia, where the outfits of the 
brides-elect were purchased and prepared. About 
the middle of August they returned home and the 
preparations began for the twin bridal, which was 
to be a quiet affair. Victor and Viola were to leave 
for their northern home, but Mr. Bertram and 


MARRIAGE, LIFE OR DEATH 201 


Genevieve, out of regard for Mrs. Bertram’s feel- 
ings, were to remain at the vale, promising, however, 
to visit their friends the following summer. 

Our heroine was surprised and pleased to find 
on her dressing-table after she had returned a rose- 
wood casket with lock and key and lined with pale 
blue silk velvet. It contained a complete set of 
pearls, including earrings, breastpin, necklace, brace- 
lets, cuff-pins, ring and a spray for the head. The 
casket and contents were from her betrothed. Her 
brother’s present was a watch and chatelaine, set 
with diamonds. Mrs. Bertram’s, a Bible, hymn- 
book and prayer-book, with beautifully embossed 
covers and chaste gold clasps, upon which her name 
was inscribed. Viola’s gift was an elegant papier- 
mache writing-desk, with appropriate contents. The 
latter also received a splendid token of affection 
from each member of the family. Victor St. Julian 
had bidden them adieu in the “City of Oaks,” con- 
fiding his gifts to the care of Mrs. Bertram, and 
had hastened to New York to prepare his foster- 
parents for the reception of his bride, promising to 
be at the vale on the afternoon of the first of 
September. 

The wedding-night arrived; the minister was at 
hand, having come over from Glenville ere the light 
had faded. The family were in hourly expectation 
of the arrival of Victor, for whose prolonged ab- 
sence they could not account. Viola was anxious 
and perplexed, but strove to conceal her real feel- 
ings. Genevieve was oppressed with a sad fore- 
boding of evil. A terrific thunderstorm had come 
on about the close of day and it was to her as the 
harbinger of a dire calamity. A dark cloud hung 


202 


GENEVIEVE 


like a pall over the gloomy mansion ; livid lightning 
pierced the blackened sky; the deafening peals of 
thunder reverberated from hill to hill of the valley, 
while fierce blasts of wind shook the house from 
basement to tower. 

Viola, pale with anxiety about her lover, who 
she feared was exposed to the fury of the tempest, 
stood before the mirror robed in her bridal para- 
phernalia, the 

“Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls.” 

Genevieve, who in her secret heart believed that 
“beauty unadorned was adorned the most,” that 
“simplicity was the soul of elegance,” and so forth, 
sat very quietly by a window, looking out upon the 
storm-swept sky. She was arrayed in a dress of 
snowy Swiss muslin, fitting closely at the throat and 
wrists, the diaphanous texture falling in airy, grace- 
ful folds around her queenly figure. Mrs. Ber- 
tram had purchased for her a dress similar to 
Viola’s, — a stiff and costly satin with an overskirt 
of Valenciennes lace, — but she had put it aside, 
preferring her simple muslin, and reserving the 
other for a grander occasion, — at least an occasion 
where there would be more display. She wore no 
ornaments, not even her pearls. We err. She had 
the “ornament of a meek and quiet spirit”; a mod- 
esty, which is, as 

“A violet, by a mossy stone, 

Half hidden from the eye, 

Fair as a star when only one 
Is shining in the sky;” 


MARRIAGE, LIFE OR DEATH 203 


the pearl of honor; the priceless jewel of piety; the 
diamond of truth; the pellucid gem of purity; 
beauty, as radiant as the flowers of spring; virtue, 
as sublime as the stars of heaven. Mr. Bertram 
had said of her to his mother: 

“She is a monument of female excellence, — with 
virtue for the base and piety for the Corinthian 
shaft that pierces the clouds and points to heaven.” 

Eight o’clock arrived, and still no Victor. Mr. 
Bertram ascended the stairs and approached the 
door of the cousins’ apartment. Our heroine met 
him and anxiously inquired for her brother. He 
soothed her fears, and quieted those of Viola by 
assuring them of the improbability of Victor’s hav- 
ing left Glenville during such a terrible storm. 
Genevieve wished to postpone her marriage, but 
Mr. Bertram urged its immediate consummation. 
The unselfish Viola joined her entreaties to his, and 
the maiden yielded. Taking her betrothed’s arm, 
they descended the steps together, followed by the 
other bride-elect. Entering the parlor, they took 
their places before the holy man of God, who stood 
ready with open book to read the marriage service. 
The servants thronged to the door, the hall was 
crowded with old and young, but there was no dis- 
order; everything was quiet and they exhibited all 
due respect. The marriage ceremony was com- 
menced and finished with great solemnity. Mr. 
Bertram and Genevieve were pronounced man and 
wife, and while they stood together receiving the 
congratulations of their friends a thundering knock 
was heard upon the door. 

“Ah, there is Victor now,” exclaimed Vivian. 
“Hasten, Oscar, to admit him.” 


204 


GENEVIEVE 


The old man obeyed. Unlocking the door he 
gave entrance not to the bridegroom whose coming 
was so eagerly expected but to a queenly woman, 
draped in black, who glided past the servants into 
the open parlor and paused before the newly-wed- 
ded pair. There was an awful silence, a mighty, 
but hushed, consternation; then a wild, prolonged 
shriek of agony rang through the house, and the 
bride sank into another of her deathlike swoons, 
falling at her husband’s feet. 

“Great God!” exclaimed Mr. Bertram in a 
hoarse, unnatural voice, “has the grave given up 
its tenant? Has death itself conspired against 
me?” 

u No,” replied the unbidden guest in a high, 
haughty tone, “a mortal woman has but accom- 
plished her revenge.” 

u And you deceived me,” he cried, “you feigned 
to be dead, — you had your death recorded in the 
papers?” 

“I did. It was a part of the vengeance I medi- 
tated. I swore an oath to snatch your bride away 
from you at the altar.” 

u You are too late, woman,” answered the horror- 
stricken man; “Genevieve is mine. We are one in 
the sight of God and man.” 

“Ah, but her principles, her conscience,” hissed 
the laughing, mocking demon. “She cannot for- 
swear them.” 

Mr. Bertram recognized the laugh. It was the 
same that he and Genevieve had heard on the night 
of their betrothal. 

“Oh, Vivian,” cried the woman in passionate 


MARRIAGE, LIFE OR DEATH 205 


tones, her manner suddenly changing as she threw 
herself upon her knees before him, “banish her from 
your heart. Take me back again, enfold me in your 
arms, love me once more, and I will atone for the 
past.” 

“Never!” thundered the wronged and outraged 
man, stamping his foot furiously, his voice sounding 
like the notes of the clarion. “Never! There is a 
gulf between us, Stella Lorraine, as wide as the 
world, as deep as hell. A gulf which no bridge can 
ever span, over which no rainbow shall ever hang, 
into which no sunlight will ever fall. Explain to 
me how you gained access to these walls, and then 
relieve me of your hateful presence forever, — you 
detestable basilisk, — you hideous Medusa!” 

The woman slowly arose, her eyes fixed upon his 
face, her heart full of bitterness; then making a 
sweeping curtsy, she hissed: “You are not yet 
conquered,” and retired, none knew whither, none 
caring to follow. 

Genevieve had been placed upon a sofa and re- 
storatives administered. The servants were dis- 
missed, with the exception of Clarinda, and the 
affrighted Viola hurried upstairs to lay aside her 
bridal attire, and don more suitable garments. 

The minister was shown to the library and Mr. 
Bertram, approaching the sofa upon which Gene- 
vieve reclined, looked with intense agony at her 
blanched cheeks and quivering lips, for she was 
now slowly regaining consciousness. 

“My wife, — my darling wife,” he murmured, 
kneeling beside her. 

She opened her eyes, recognized him and the 


206 


GENEVIEVE 


flood gates of memory flew open; the whole tide of 
bitter recollections rushed in upon her soul; she 
shuddered and withdrew herself from him. That 
act was a dagger to the man’s noble, sensitive heart, 
and came near rending in twain its very core. He 
silently left the apartment. A few moments later 
Mrs. Bertram, the sole occupant except our heroine, 
was called out for a brief time and when she re- 
turned Genevieve was not there. The overpower- 
ing odor of chloroform filled the room. Her fright- 
ened outcry brought her son and Viola to her side. 
The latter, perceiving that her cousin had disap- 
peared, gave utterance to the fearful belief that she 
would attempt self-destruction. 

“Never!” affirmed Mr. Bertram. “Genevieve 
will never commit suicide unless to preserve her 
honor. She has been abducted by that fiend incar- 
nate and her allies. Do you not perceive that the 
odor of chloroform pervades the apartment?” 

He caught up a bugle lying upon the table near 
him and blew a blast that echoed through the 
house, summoning both negroes and dogs to his side, 
while his horse neighed furiously in the stable, long- 
ing to join in the pursuit. Soon torches were brand- 
ished, a lantern was placed in the master’s hands, 
and heading his servants he sprang out into the 
darkness and commenced his search for the stolen 
maiden. 

Onward through the forest crept two stealthy 
figures, their way made plain by the light of a dark 
lantern which the female bore in her hand while the 
other, the dwarf, held in his brawny arms the in- 
animate maiden, whose senses had been steeped in 


MARRIAGE, LIFE OR DEATH 207 


oblivion by the powerful drug which had been so 
freely administered in the parlor. 

The storm raged in wild and awful fury; peal 
after peal of thunder shook the earth, striking ter- 
ror to every heart; lightnings writhed across the 
murky sky like fiery, coiling serpents, while fierce 
blasts of wind and drenching showers of rain soon 
extinguished the lights and left master and slaves 
alike in total darkness. All the tiger in Mr. Ber- 
tram’s nature was aroused; he could have breasted 
ten thousand storms to regain his lost bride; he 
scarcely heeded the wind and rain, but when the 
blackness of night enveloped them all, when he saw 
how useless it would be to attempt to carry a light, 
the conviction forced itself upon him that all present 
efforts would prove unavailing. He might pass and 
repass the missing one and never know it; she might 
even cry for assistance and her voice be drowned 
by the raging of the elements. His trumpet tones 
rang out upon the night air and were distinctly heard 
by those around him. 

“My men, let us return home and wait until the 
tempest subsides. We can do nothing now, but be 
in readiness to attend me at any time that I may 
call. My heart is wrung with a bitter sorrow; my 
young bride and your young mistress has been car- 
ried off, stupefied 'with a dangerous medicine; she 
is even now exposed to this terrible storm. I be- 
lieve the woman who entered the house to-night to 
be her abductor. In the dwarf, Ranald McEagh, 
I think she has an accomplice,” the thought flashing 
through his mind at that moment, “and I must over- 
take, must capture them.” 


208 


GENEVIEVE 


A shrieking tornado sweeping over the forest at 
that moment compelled man and tree alike to bend 
before its fury. When it had passed, a stalwart 
negro man, one with the frame of a Hercules, 
stepped before his master, and pulling his forelock, 
for his hat had been blown beyond his reach, said 
determinedly: 

“Massa, we are wid you, body an’ soul. We’ll 
track dem buckra like bloodhounds.” 

All the bloodthirstiness in the nature of the 
slaves was aroused by the great injury done their 
master and from the stentorian lungs of the as- 
sembled crowd there went up such hideous yells 
as might have made the demons in Pandemonium 
tremble. They certainly did not fail to make the 
perfidious heart of Stella Lorraine quake with fear 
when they were borne to her ears on the wings of 
the wild wind during a partial lull in the tempest. 

Genevieve, fanned by the cool breath of night 
and saturated with the rain which had been rapidly 
falling, began to revive as her captors neared the 
wretched hovel owned by the strange woman, to 
whom people had given the fearful apellation of 
“witch.” The dwarf felt her slightly move in his 
arms and said to his companion in a loud whisper: 

u She is coming to !” 

“That is unfortunate,” exclaimed the woman in 
alarm. “What shall we do? I broke the vial of 
chloroform and its contents were spilled as I assisted 
you in getting the girl out of the window. Hark! 
What was that?” 

At that moment the sound of horse’s hoofs were 
heard rapidly approaching; the cowardly ruffian 
dropped his burden and prepared for instant flight. 


MARRIAGE, LIFE OR DEATH 209 

“Fool!” ejaculated the woman in a tone of con- 
tempt, “would you foil my plans now, in the very 
hour of my success? Plunge the girl into the 
Black Tarn; she is still insensible; she will make no 
outcry.” 

Ere she had finished, the avaricious demon, fear- 
ing to forfeit his promised reward, caught the 
maiden again in his arms, and advancing rapidly a 
few steps, precipitated her with all his might into 
the midnight waters; then taking to his heels, fol- 
lowed by his accomplice, he soon placed himself 
beyond the reach of danger. 

The slimy waters closed over our heroine, but 
the sudden chill of her plunge-bath had the happy 
effect of fully and perfectly restoring her senses, a 
result of which her enemies had not thought. When 
she arose to the surface she threw out her hand, 
hoping to catch hold of some object which might 
assist her in regaining land. For a moment she 
was not aware of her situation, but like lightning the 
conviction came to her that she was struggling in 
the inky waters of the Black Tarn. Fortunately 
as she made a mighty effort when she was just on 
the eve of again sinking her hand grasped the limb of 
a fallen tree that lay extended on one side of the 
pond, and for the moment she was safe. The 
bough hung over but near the surface, and Gene- 
vieve clutched it with desperation, but she felt that 
her fingers were becoming benumbed and a terrible 
despair seized upon her heart. 

Nearer and nearer approached the sound of a 
horse’s feet, for what we have been so long in relat- 
ing occurred almost in the twinkling of an eye. The 
rider came rapidly onward, then suddenly paused. 


210 


GENEVIEVE 


“I have undoubtedly lost my way,” he muttered. 
“Idiot that I was, in the darkness I took the wrong 
route where the roads forked at the mouth of the 
valley, and here I am in the vicinity of the witch’s 
hut. Pleasant company she would be on such a 
night as this.” 

There came another lull in the storm, and while 
the rider paused irresolute a feeble moan attracted 
his attention. He bent his head and listened eag- 
erly. The moan was repeated and he thought he 
heard a faint fluttering sound. 

“Who’s there?” demanded the young man in a 
bold voice. 

A faint, joyful cry answered him, for the maiden 
had recognized the voice of her brother. Quickly 
dismounting, he approached the spot from which 
the sound had proceeded, when Genevieve, appalled 
by the danger that threatened him, dreading that he 
too would sink into the Tarn, made a powerful 
effort to recover her speech, and succeeding, cried 
out: 

“Brother, beware! A misstep will plunge you 
into the pool. Be cautious, if you would rescue 
me from a watery grave; be silent as death if you 
would not again cast me into the power of my 
enemies.” 

The storm was renewed with redoubled fury. 
The young man, stricken with horror at the immi- 
nent peril of his sister, at the same time compre- 
hending that an absolute silence was necessary, 
groped his way to the edge of the pond, and bend- 
ing over extended his arm in the direction of the 
maiden. His hand first came in contact with her 


MARRIAGE, LIFE OR DEATH 21 1 


clustering curls; then, inclining still more, he was 
enabled to encircle her waist with one arm while 
he threw the other firmly over a branch of the 
fallen tree. Slowly, steadily he dragged the girl, 
encumbered by her heavy skirts, to the bank; then, 
releasing his hold upon the tree and bringing his 
other hand to his assistance, he succeeded in lifting 
her and placing her upon land. Once safely there, 
he pressed her to his bosom in a fervent embrace, 
showering kisses upon her clay-cold lips. Then car- 
rying her gently to the spot where he had left his 
horse, he mounted him and took his sister in his 
arms. 

“Dear brother,” she whispered, “do not take me 
back to Mr. Bertram. I dare not meet him again. 
My resolution would waver at the sound of his 
voice, now while I am so weak, so prostrated. 
Carry me to the overseer’s lodge near the planta- 
tion houses.” 

That night about twelve o’clock, for it could 
scarcely have been later, Mrs. Wayne, alone in 
her comfortable home with her six little children 
(which we dare say were company enough), her 
husband having been called away from home and 
having been detained by the storm, was aroused by 
a succession of thundering knocks upon her door. 

“Who’s that?” she demanded in a loud voice, 
which was distinctly audible to the pair outside in 
the now rapidly subsiding storm. 

“Friends in distress,” replied Victor. 

The little woman jumped out of bed, huddled 
on her clothes and approaching the door said: 

“I am a lone woman with a house full of little 


212 


GENEVIEVE 


children; tell me your names, or I will not admit 
you.” 

u Miss St. Julian and her brother,” was the an- 
swer. 

Although Mrs. Wayne had never seen either of 
them, yet their names and histories were familiar 
to her, as she had heard them from the servants. In 
a moment the door flew open and she uttered a 
cry of amazement as she beheld by the light of her 
candle the pale face and trembling form of the 
maiden, who had been enveloped in her brother’s 
hat and broadcloth coat. Conquering her curios- 
ity she soon kindled a fire and prepared a cup of 
tea and dry clothes for each of them. Then she 
removed our heroine to another room, where an- 
other fire had been kindled by her eldest son. She 
assisted Genevieve to undress and put her in a neat 
bed. Then she dried her clothes. 

After his sister had been warmly clad and made 
comfortable Victor, who had donned the overseer’s 
Sunday suit, explained to Mrs. Wayne that Gene- 
vieve had been abducted while she was lying in a 
fainting-fit at the Bertram mansion and had been 
cast into the Black Tarn; that he had mistaken his 
road and chancing to be near the spot, or having 
been guided thither by the hand of Providence, had 
succeeded in rescuing her ere it was too late. The 
woman, knowing that he had to retrace his way, 
thought it was perfectly natural that he should have 
brought his sister to her house, as it was nearer 
than the mansion. 

“My patience!” she cried, “if such atrocities are 
committed in this quiet, out-of-the-way place, I don’t 


MARRIAGE, LIFE OR DEATH 213 


think I will ever allow Mr. Wayne to be absent 
again at night. The poor young lady! She 
might have drowned and been lying now at the bot- 
tom of that horrid pool. Ugh ! just to think of it, 
and she was to have been married to-night, too, to 
the finest man in the world, my husband says.” 


CHAPTER XVI 

THE CAVE BY THE RIVER 


Tis now the raven’s bleak abode; 

’Tis now the apartment of the toad; 

And there the fox securely feeds, 

And there the poisonous adder breeds, 

Conceal’d in ruins, moss and weeds; 

While ever and anon there falls 
Huge heaps of hoary moulder’d walls. 

— Dyer's “Gronger Hill.” 

O sky of clouds ! O earth of graves ! 

O sea of gray and moaning waves! 

O heart of bitterness that craves 
Relief in overflow. 

After resting an hour or two Genevieve, wholly 
unable to sleep, arose, and arraying herself in a 
plain dark calico, placed near the bed for her use, 
pinned a snowy handkerchief around her neck and 
went out into the principal room, where she found 
her brother sitting moodily by the fire. He ad- 
vanced to meet her and led her to the armchair 
which he had vacated on her entrance. 

“Is it nearly dawn, brother ?” she inquired anx- 
iously. 

“I think it is,” he replied, “and I am eager for 

214 


CAVE BY THE RIVER 


215 


the light that I may ride over to the castle and 
relieve Bertram of his terrible suspense. Oh, my 
sister, what he must have suffered since your ab- 
duction 1 He loves you with a devotion almost fear- 
ful in its intensity.” 

“Ah, do I not know that he does?” exclaimed 
Genevieve, the tears streaming down her cheeks. 
“But you approve of my course, do you not, dear 
brother?” 

Victor, to whom our heroine had given an epit- 
ome of her adventures during their stormy ride, re- 
plied: 

“Certainly, dear; not for worlds would I have 
had you in your youth, in your glorious beauty and 
intellect, wed a man who had a living wife when 
you might have mated with the highest and noblest 
of the land. But since it is so, since you have mar- 
ried him, believing her to be dead, you will either 
have to procure a divorce, for you are legally bound 
to Bertram, or remain single all your life. I know 
you will prefer the latter, as indeed I shall myself, 
for a divorce would create much scandal and be 
painful to everybody concerned.” 

He paused a moment and then continued: 

“I will bear you away to a beautiful home, sur- 
round you with new friends, with all the luxuries 
that wealth can procure and Viola and I will devote 
our lives to making you happy. Oh, my darling, 
my darling, how it wrings my heart to know that you 
are suffering, and that he too, the noble and gifted 
man of your choice, is enduring pangs that nothing 
can alleviate.” 

Genevieve sobbed aloud, but soon calmed her- 
self when she discovered how painfully her grief 


21 6 


GENEVIEVE 


affected her brother; she feared too that she might 
arouse Mrs. Wayne, who had again retired, after 
having made her guests comfortable. 

At the first peep of dawn she returned to her 
room, while Victor donned his own garments and 
prepared for his visit to the castle. As he was 
about to depart the maiden a second time made her 
appearance, and kissing her affectionately, he whis- 
pered: 

“Keep yourself close, dear, and lock the door 
when I am gone, to prevent the possibility of be- 
ing discovered by your enemies. If the parson is 
still at the castle, I will bring you a sister when I 
return as well as your baggage. When I have seen 
you and Viola safe in New York at my father’s 
house I will come south again and ferret out your 
foes, taking care when they are captured to mete 
to them the punishment they so richly deserve.” 

After a brief pause he continued hesitatingly: 
“It is best, dear, I think, that you should never see 
Mr. Bertram again. He has an eloquent tongue 
and might dissuade you from the course you have 
adopted.” 

Our heroine bowed her head in an agonized ac- 
quiescence. The door closed and the brother who 
so mourned his sister’s blighted hopes started on 
his early ride. 

Half an hour later he stood in the hall where he 
found Mr. Bertram who had been absent the latter 
portion of the night searching for the abductors 
and the abducted, and who was just preparing to 
start again. There too were Mrs. Bertram and 
Viola. The latter ran to him with a cry of joy, 
was folded in his arms and held there while he said 


CAVE BY THE RIVER 217 

hurriedly to the pale, stern man who stood before 
him. 

u Let me hasten to relieve your anxiety, — my sis- 
ter is found.” 

Glad thanksgivings were uttered, both by Mrs. 
Bertram and Viola, but Mr. Bertram stood mo- 
tionless, his eyes fixed upon Victor, who gave an 
account of all that had occurred. 

u And Genevieve, — my wife, — why did you not 
brink her back to her husband?” he sternly de- 
manded when the narrator had finished his account 
of what had occurred. 

Victor flushed and for a moment a haughty re- 
ply trembled on his lips, but he knew that Mr. Ber- 
tram was drinking wormwood and gall, and con- 
quering himself, he said gently : 

“Genevieve is convinced that her best plan is 
never to return. Her heart bleeds for you, dear sir, 
and she loves you with all the strength of her im- 
passioned nature, but she has determined to absent 
herself from you ever hereafter.” 

A groan escaped Mr. Bertram’s lips. 

“She renounces the vows, then, that she so lately 
took upon herself,” he exclaimed bitterly; then he 
added: “Victor, Genevieve is my wife. I will, — 
I must see her. I must hear from her own lips that 
she intends to leave me forever.” 

“Genevieve is legally your wife,” replied the 
young man, “no one is better aware of that than 
she is herself, but her conscience does not ratify the 
vows which her heart made and her lips acknowl- 
edged. She was ignorant of the fact that your re- 
pudiated wife still lived and does not consider her 
marriage valid in the sight of God. Pardon me, 


21 8 


GENEVIEVE 


then, dear cousin, if I insist that her retirement 
must not be disturbed.” 

The unhappy man turned and walked slowly 
away in the direction of the overseer’s lodge. Three 
pairs of eyes watched him sadly until he had disap- 
peared and then Victor said: 

“Dear aunt, will you have Genevieve’s wardrobe 
packed up and order the carriage that we may leave 
as soon as possible? If the minister is still here, 
I would be glad to have him summoned immediately 
that Viola and I may be joined in marriage ere we 
bid you farewell.” 

Viola blushed and extricating herself from his 
arms asked, “You will at least permit me to change 
my dress, will you not?” 

“Yes, — for a traveling costume. I propose to 
take you and Genevieve to Glenville, where we will 
spend to-night. To-morrow we will proceed by 
stage to Columbia and go thence to New York by 
railway. After I have seen you both safe home I 
will return to this place and find my sister’s perse- 
cutors.” 

Mrs. Bertram complied with his wishes, her heart 
filled with sorrow at the desolation that was about 
to fall on her home. Viola ran upstairs, donned a 
black silk traveling dress and superintended the 
packing of her own and Genevieve’s trunks, which 
was hastily done by the two maids, assisted by old 
Clarinda. Her preparations being completed, she 
went below, where she found Mrs. Bertram, the 
minister and Victor awaiting her in the parlor, and 
ere many minutes had elapsed a husband’s kisses 
were pressed upon her brow. 

The carriage was at the door and Victor, after 


CAVE BY THE RIVER 


219 


liberally rewarding the parson and bidding his aunt 
an affectionate farewell, tenderly unclasped the 
arms of his weeping bride from the neck of the lat- 
ter, hurried her into the carriage, placed himself 
by her, and ordered the driver to proceed rapidly 
to the overseer’s lodge. Ere they had passed 
through the portal they met the overseer himself 
upon horseback, flushed and excited with his rapid 
ride and the startling news which he had to com- 
municate. 

“What is the matter, Mr. Wayne?” asked Victor 
eagerly, leaning from the carriage window. 

“Miss St. Julian has vanished from my house,” 
answered the man, “and we can discover no trace 
of her.” 

“Great God!” exclaimed Victor, falling back into 
his seat and pressing his hands upon his forehead. 

“Yes,” continued the man, “when my wife 
awoke this morning she found the front door stand- 
ing open and supposing that you had just left, she 
paid little attention to it. The door of the room 
occupied by your sister was closed and thinking that 
she still slept and was sadly in need of repose, my 
wife quieted the children and made preparations 
for breakfast with as little noise as possible. When 
I came home she related to me all that had occurred. 
Breakfast was placed upon the table and after de- 
liberating awhile she concluded to carry a cup of 
strong tea to Miss St. Julian and prevail upon her 
to drink it. When my wife entered the room, how- 
ever, she found it vacant, and we thought at first 
that the young lady had returned with you to the 
castle; but the more we reflected, the more unlikely 
it appeared that she would leave without a word, 


220 


GENEVIEVE 


so I went out and searched the premises. One of 
the plantation horses was gone as was also a bridle 
and saddle ; but I found no clue to the whereabouts 
of the young lady.” 

In as few words as possible Victor explained to 
Mr. Wayne how and where he had left his sister, 
telling him of the advice he had given her to keep 
herself hidden until his return, which would be im- 
mediately after the solemnization of his marriage. 
The man informed him that he had encountered 
Mr. Bertram, that he had given him an account of 
our heroine’s second disappearance, that Mr. Ber- 
tram had procured a horse and gone on in swift pur- 
suit, bidding him tell Mr. St. Julian to collect a 
number of men and scour the country in every direc- 
tion. 

Victor ordered the carriage to be driven back 
to the door, where he assisted his bride to alight, 
and placing her under her aunt’s protection, he hur- 
ried away on horseback with the overseer, to join 
in the search for the missing one, which was con- 
tinued for days and weeks without any hope of 
success. 

In one of the wildest and dreariest spots on the 
banks of the rushing Catawba, near the sparkling, 
foaming falls and but a short distance from the old 
Revolutionary fort, situated upon Mount Dearborn 
(though on the opposite side of the river) was a 
mountain of rock. It was scarcely distinguishable 
from numerous others in the same neighborhood, 
except that it contained a hidden cave, of which 
many had heard. Its existence was known to the Ca- 
tawba Indians, but no one had ever seen it, save one, 


CAVE BY THE RIVER 


221 


and he had kept the secret of its situation locked 
within his own bosom. The red men had all van- 
ished from that vicinity like morning vapors before 
the sun’s bright beams and the place was so wild 
and desolate that the foot of the white man scarcely 
ever disturbed its gloomy repose. 

On the morning that Victor St. Julian had bidden 
his sister a brief adieu at the door of the overseer’s 
lodge, cautioning her to secure it carefully after 
his departure, a man might have been seen hovering 
in the woods near at hand, watching with eagerness 
everything that was transpiring in the little house, 
and awaiting an opportunity to recapture the hap- 
less maiden. That man was the dwarf, — Ranald 
McEagh. On the previous night he and the woman, 
Stella Lorraine, had concealed themselves in a cel- 
lar beneath the witch’s abode, being alarmed by the 
near approach of horse’s feet and dreading cap- 
ture. As soon, however, as they supposed all dan- 
ger to be over they crept back to the Tarn just as 
Victor and his sister rode away in the direction of 
the overseer’s lodge. Although the storm was 
raging, their close but unsuspected proximity to the 
pair enabled them to overhear some of their con- 
versation. 

The voice of the maiden was recognized while 
her rescuer’s was wholly unknown. Both listened 
eagerly until the voices were no longer audible. 

“She has escaped,” whispered the woman. “Pur- 
sue and overtake them. She will be carried back 
to the Bertram mansion, and her resolves, what- 
ever they may be, will melt like ice before the glance 
of its master. While she lives I can never regain 
my influence over Vivian Bertram. Recapture her 


222 


GENEVIEVE 


and I will double, — nay, triple, — your reward.” 

“Relinquish your claims upon her,” answered 
the monster, placing his mouth close to the woman’s 
ear, “return to your home in Florida, for if you 
remain here, you will be arrested and thrown into 
prison. I will bear the girl to a place of security 
and neither you nor he shall ever hear of her again. 
I swear it.” 

“What do you want with her?” fiercely demanded 
the repudiated wife. “To sell her to her husband 
at a great price?” 

“Never,” said the dwarf. “She shall never see 
him again as sure as I am Ranald McEagh. Lis- 
ten, I will be candid with you. I love the girl with 
all the desperation of a wild beast. I want her for 
myself and I would kill her rather than let her go 
back to him. I would strangle her, drown her or 
shoot her.” 

“You love the pale-faced creature, do you?” 
laughed the woman contemptuously. “You have a 
refined taste, — as refined as that of my lord Vivian 
Bertram, whom I cannot say that you resemble per- 
sonally.” 

For a moment the dwarf trembled with rage at 
the insinuation of his ugliness conveyed in her taunt- 
ing speech, but he conquered himself and replied : 

“Yes, — yes! I have watched her night and day; 
have dogged her footsteps when she dreamed it 
not. Her pretty face has softened a heart of stone. 

I want her for my wife and she shall be mine as 
sure as I am Ranald McEagh.” 

The woman sneered. 

“Have it your own way then,” she said. “I 
would not like to interfere between such an inter- 


CAVE BY THE RIVER 


223 


tsting pair of lovers. If you are fond of the girl, 
you will surely keep her out of Vivian Bertram’s 
arms.” 

“Trust me for that,” he answered fiercely. 

When this colloquy was ended Stella Lorraine 
hurried on to Glenville, the road being familiar to 
her, even in the dark. She wore a waterproof hat, 
cloak and boots, and consequently did not fear ex- 
posure to the weather. She was anxious to leave 
the neighborhood until everything should be quiet 
again, and with that idea predominant she sped 
rapidly on, never halting until she reached the inn, 
before which the stage was standing in the early 
dawn, ready to depart. The driver eyed her curi- 
ously but said nothing as she sprang in, for she had 
been his passenger several times before; and, al- 
though he believed that she was bent on mischief, 
yet Mr. Bertram had not said so when he ques- 
tioned him so closely. 

The dwarf, after leaving his companion, swiftly 
followed the fugitive, whom he overtook near the 
end of her ride. Lingering about until daylight, he 
saw her brother depart, and ere he had disappeared 
the dwarf stole softly to the door where the maiden 
was still standing watching the receding figure of 
the horseman. 

With great dexterity he bound her with a rope 
which he had procured from one of the stables, 
having first placed a gag in her mouth to prevent an 
outcry; then taking her in his arms he went out into 
the yard where a horse already bridled and saddled 
awaited him. This horse had been stolen from the 
plantation stables which were situated near the 
lodge, as had been also the bridle and saddle. 


224 


GENEVIEVE 


The villain mounted the animal, taking the 
maiden up before him, and cautiously approached 
the woods. Having once gained their friendly 
shelter he sped away like an escaped criminal, goad- 
ing his steed to desperation, halting neither for 
fences nor ditches, nor slackening his speed until 
the bank of the river was reached. Then he sud- 
denly stopped his wild career. After carefully ex- 
amining the surrounding country to discover if any- 
one was visible, he dismounted, and turning the 
horse loose, untied a bateau concealed in the canes, 
hurried the half-dead maiden into it, and paddled 
across the swift current. 

The horse, finding himself free, true to his in- 
stincts started back home in a wild gallop, — at the 
same breakneck speed with which he had come. 

When the river had been crossed the dwarf se- 
cured the bateau to a stake driven in the ground, 
and leaving it effectually concealed in a clump of 
bushes, lifted his helpless burden and strode onward 
between huge masses of rocks that reared them- 
selves, like grim fortresses, along the water’s edge. 
Ere he had gone far he paused, and kneeling down, 
touched a spring concealed in a massive rock, whose 
surface was apparently perfectly smooth. A large 
round stone slowly revolved on a pivot, leaving a 
circular opening sufficiently great to admit the body 
of a man. Our heroine was completely exhausted 
bodily; the rope with which she was bound had cut 
great gashes in her tender flesh, her mouth was 
lacerated and bleeding from the cruel gag, and her 
rapid though short ride in an uncomfortable posi- 
tion had caused her the most excruciating tortures. 
But she was in full possession of her faculties, — 


CAVE BY THE RIVER 


225 


her mind was perfectly clear. She felt that every- 
thing depended upon herself; she was convinced 
that neither Mr. Bertram nor her brother would be 
able to find a clue to her hiding-place. The hope 
of escape was strong within her bosom, and to make 
that hope a reality it was absolutely necessary that 
she should retain her senses. 

The dwarf entered the cavern, pulling her in 
after him, and the stone slowly glided back to its 
place. The interior was shrouded in an Egyptian 
darkness. The monster laid her down upon the 
damp rock floor, and fumbling in his pocket, 
brought out a box of matches, which he opened. 
Taking one from its place he ignited it by striking 
it upon the wall. For a moment a sickly glare 
partly illuminated the strange scene ; then the match 
suddenly went out, and the darkness seemed more 
intense than ever. 

“Confound the luck,” muttered the man, as he 
drew another from the box and scraped it upon 
the rock. This time he had better success, and after 
hunting about he discovered a candle and lighted 
it, thereby enabling Genevieve to obtain a clearer 
view of the apartment. It had the appearance of 
having been inhabited before, and it contained a 
heterogeneous collection of shot-guns, fishing-tackle, 
powder-flasks, hunting-horns, shot-pouches, etc. 
While our heroine was gazing above and around 
her the man approached, and after removing the 
gag from her mouth and unbinding her, said: 

“Welcome, my pretty bird, to my river cave. 
This is but the vestibule, however, and presently I 
will introduce you to an apartment more suitably 
to s-o fair a lady.” 


226 


GENEVIEVE 


Genevieve was scarcely able to arise, so be- 
numbed were her limbs, and she was compelled to 
support herself against the granite wall. 

“Have mercy upon me,” she cried feebly. “I 
have never done you an injury, — why abet that cruel 
woman in her plans for vengeance? I am an inno- 
cent, helpless girl; liberate me, permit me to go 
back to my friends, and your fortune will be made.” 

The dwarf sneered, thus rendering his ugly vis- 
age awful to behold. 

“Yes,” he replied, “and have them track me with 
bloodhounds, hunt me as relentlessly, slay me as re- 
morselessly as they would a bear or a panther. 
Never, my lady. Life is sweet to me, though I am 
a deformed and repulsive creature. I will have a 
bonny bride ere long. Much happiness is in store 
for you and me.” 

Genevieve shuddered and gasped for breath. 

“My God!” she cried. “You do not wish to 
marry me? You can not mean that? You are only 
aiding Stella Lorraine to remove me from her 
path.” 

“Believe what you please, my lady, but you shall 
not leave this place until you are my wife. I am 
doing you an honor, indeed, in selecting you for a 
helpmate, though you may not consider it one. My 
family is good; my parents were honest Scotch peo- 
ple, and I am descended from the Children of the 
Mist. I am an educated man. My father spared 
no efforts to make his deformed child handsome 
in mind, if not in person. But the devil was in me 
and would show his cloven foot. I killed my 
brother in a fit of rage, — don’t mind telling you as 
you will never be able to repeat it beyond these 


CAVE BY THE RIVER 


227 


walls. My father drove me away from my home 
in the Cheviot Hills, and since then I have been a 
wanderer upon the face of the earth, — more ac- 
cursed than Cain. Happily, I had learned the 
mason’s trade, and by following it have been en- 
abled to keep soul and body together. A few years 
ago I came to this neighborhood, and happening to 
stumble upon this cave I made it my abode.” 

“But you will release me for gold, for thousands 
and thousands of dollars?” implored the maiden. 

“No, girl!” he thundered, grasping her arm 
rudely and forcing her to what seemed a precipice. 
It was in reality a perpendicular descent of about 
ten feet. Genevieve shuddered and drew back, fear- 
ing that he meditated her instant death; but the 
dwarf pointed to a ladder which she had not seen, 
and bade her descend. The girl mechanically 
obeyed, her persecutor following, and found her- 
self in a large subterranean chamber, intersected 
by small streams of running water. In a corner, on 
the damp, alternate rock and earthen floor, was 
heaped a pile of straw, and by it upon a large stone 
were placed a jug of water and a pone of loaf 
bread. 

“This is your bower, my fairy princess,” de- 
clared the misshapen demon, “and I will leave you 
for a while that you may compose your nerves. 
When I return I will bring you a companion, — one 
whom I trust will be congenial to your tastes.” 

He turned and ascended the ladder, carrying the 
candle with him. Soon our heroine heard the grat- 
ing noise made by the revolving stone as it receded 
from and then glided back to its place. Oh, the 
agony of that moment to the girl enveloped in the 


228 


GENEVIEVE 


blackness of darkness! A Marah spring was opened 
in her heart, — a stream of bitterness deluged her 
soul. She could not weep; the fountain of tears was 
dried within her breast; the remembrance of the 
past few weeks passed before her like the shifting 
scenes of a kaleidoscope, or the phantasmagoria of 
a blissful dream. She could scarcely realize for 
many moments that she was indeed and in truth 
a prisoner in a gloomy underground dungeon, with- 
out one ray of hope to make glad her desolate 
heart. 

For minutes that seemed ages she sat perfectly 
still, the personification of a terrible misery, when a 
slight noise aroused her from the trance and at- 
tracted her attention. She became conscious at the 
same time that her prison-chamber was not as dark 
as it had at first seemed, owing partly to her 
having become accustomed to the gloom and partly 
to a faint light that glimmered many feet above, 
where a straggling sunbeam fell through a crevice 
in the rocks. 

Looking around to discover the origin of the 
noise, she beheld with terror a hideous water-moc- 
casin trailing its slimy way over the floor, with head 
erect, creeping as though directly toward her. She 
closed her eyes to shut out the fearful sight and 
uttered a wild cry, expecting every moment to feel 
the serpent’s envenomed fangs pierce her flesh. 
But, alarmed by the unusual sound of a human 
shriek, the snake rattled away, and plunging into 
one of the small streams, followed its course, find- 
ing an outlet from the cavern by some means hid- 
den from human sight. Disgusting toads squatted 
jihoiit op the floor, leering at the helpless captive, 


CAVE BY THE RIVER 


229 


while bats circled around above her head, sometimes 
brushing her hair with their wings. Once she caught 
a glimpse of a pair of great blinking, goggled eyes, 
and would have repeated her wild scream, but that 
voice and strength alike forsook her and she sank 
exhausted upon the damp, moldy ground. 

In the corner opposite the bed of straw was a 
heap composed of crumbling rocks, and a new terror 
seized her. What if the whole tremendous pile 
should sink in and crush her beneath its mighty 
weight? What if the river should rise, the little 
tributaries swell to giant streams, and the cavern 
be submerged? What if she should soon be a waxen 
corpse, the wild waves kissing her brow, the water- 
snakes coiling and hissing through her hair and 
writhing over her inanimate body? 

“My God!” she cried aloud, “save me from such 
an awful doom. Oh, better to be consumed upon 
a funeral pyre, like the Hindoo widow, better to 
find a grave beneath Arctic snows, better to die a rav- 
ing maniac, than to be devoured by serpents, per- 
haps to feel their sharp, poisoned teeth before the 
breath has left my body, before my spirit has for- 
saken its tenement.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE STRANGE GUEST 

How much the heart may bear, and yet not break ! 

How much the flesh may suffer, and not die ! 

I question much if any pain or ache 
Of soul or body brings our end more nigh — 

Death chooses his own time; till that is sworn, 

All evils may be borne. 

And what art thou? I know, but dare not speak! 

— Shelley. 

The search for the missing maiden was continued 
during the months of September and October. Notices 
of her disappearance were inserted in all the leading 
journals, both in South Carolina and Florida, to- 
gether with accurate descriptions of the woman, 
Stella Lorraine, and her accomplice, Ranald 
McEagh. But nothing was gained. No traces of 
the maiden nor her captors could be discovered. A 
few remembered having seen Stella Lorraine on 
the morning that she entered the stage at Glenville, 
but could give no other information. The driver 
declared that she had mysteriously disappeared 
from the coach, he supposed, while he was halting 
to water his horses. Having to go some distance 
to the stream, he lost sight of the stage, and he 

V 230 


THE STRANGE GUEST 


231 


thought it was reasonable to suppose that she had 
taken advantage of his absence to leave the vehicle 
and conceal herself, probably fearing that she would 
be overtaken and captured by the avengers of jus- 
tice. The man, however, could not designate any 
particular time as that of her departure, as he did 
not discover it until he reached Monterosa, when 
going to the door for the purpose of assisting the 
lady to alight he found that he had been driving an 
empty coach. 

Mr. Bertram wrote to Valveda, Florida, for in- 
formation, but the reply stated that the woman had 
not been seen in nor near that place for many days, 
that her death had been recorded in the papers, and 
that everybody believed her to be dead. Mr. Ber- 
tram and Victor were untiring in their exertions, — 
night and day they scoured the country, sometimes 
being absent from home for the space of a week. 
Viola remained with her aunt; her honeymoon 
passed in the gloomy retirement of the now thrice 
desolate vale. 

When the witch’s hut was examined it was found 
that she had suddenly and strangely disappeared, 
and no one knew whither she had gone. Mr. Ber- 
tram thought that he had discovered our heroine’s 
place of concealment when he descended to the dark 
underground cellar, but after an effective search he 
became convinced that she was not there. 

The horse upon which the dwarf had ridden away 
returned home unseen, and when found by the over- 
seer was quietly grazing in a pasture near the lodge. 
They endeavored to track him, but no sign of his 
footprints was visible upon the leaves which strewed 
the forest between Bertram manor and the Ca- 


GENEVIEVE 


232 

tawba. In vain did they search for the missing 
bridle, the saddle being still bound securely upon 
his back. The dwarf had removed it when turning 
the horse loose and had carelessly thrown it into the 
bateau, where it still remained. 

Hope sickened and grew pale and finally died, 
while the waning October moon looked down upon 
the cavern chamber, where the good, the gifted and 
the beautiful was offering her prayers to God for 
rescue. 

Who shall describe the agony of Vivian Bertram? 
His young wife had been torn from him at the 
very altar and consigned to an unknown and ter- 
rible fate. Her enemies had vanished just as mys- 
teriously and he entertained no hopes of being en- 
abled to mete out to them the retribution they so 
richly deserved. All day he was in the saddle and 
when night came, if not still pursuing his search, 
he was tossing upon a sleepless couch, stifling his 
groans that his mother might not be disturbed, and 
offering up fervent prayers to God that his beautiful 
bride might be restored, if not to his arms, at least 
to her brother. He felt that he would be resigned 
to their separation if she could only be found, alive 
and well. Oh, the agony of the thought that she 
might even now be lying a mutilated corpse, or 
moldering perhaps in a nameless grave ! 

The excitement, the grief that he endured, threw 
him into a fever and for days and nights he suffered 
terrible pain, physically as well as mentally. When 
the fever was raging fiercest he became delirious 
and raved of his auburn-haired bride, calling her by 
the most endearing names, pleading with her to 
come back to him, to forget the dark fate that had 


THE STRANGE GUEST 


233 


so long and so grievously separated them. Some- 
times he would throw his arms out wildly, as if to 
ward off some hideous object, and at others, laugh 
joyously, as he had done on his bridal eve. 

These violent attacks were followed by intervals 
in which the sufferer would lie for hours in a death- 
like sleep, neither stirring nor awaking. The 
physicians shook their heads gloomily when ques- 
tioned by Victor or Viola, invariably repeating the 
old maxim, “While there’s life there’s hope.” 

For days the life so dear to his friends quivered 
in the balance, but at length a powerful constitution 
re-asserted its rights and Vivian Bertram arose 
from his couch, the mere shadow of his former 
self, his glorious head bowed and his proud heart 
rent by anguish more terrible than death. 

And Genevieve in her prison chamber, the com- 
panion of reptiles and insects, the innocent victim 
of a merciless monster, — what of her? Was she 
still the associate of hooting owl and flapping bat? 
Of slimy serpent and squatting toad? 

On the afternoon of her confinement in the river 
cave our heroine suddenly remembered the ladder, 
by means of which she had descended into the sub- 
terranean apartment. Groping her way in the 
darkness to the spot where she supposed it was, she 
found that it had vanished. The dwarf had drawn 
it up after him. It was impossible for her to climb 
the smooth and perpendicular rock, so she slowly 
returned to her seat where she remained until about 
night, when she heard the peculiar grating noise 
that attended the revolving stone. 

Our heroine strained her ears and caught the 
sound of voices in conversation. The stone slowly 


234 


GENEVIEVE 


glided back to its place, and soon steps approached, 
the ladder was let down and the red-haired dwarf 
descended, followed by a female. 

Genevieve’s heart beat high with expectation. She 
thought that a crisis in her life had arrived, that she 
was about to be confronted with the arbitress of her 
destiny, — Stella Lorraine. She arose from her sit- 
ting posture and drew her czarina-like figure to its 
loftiest height. Pride sat enthroned upon her 
classic brow and a defiant light blazed in her brown 
eyes. 

“Let her come,” she whispered; “I will not quail 
before her bold, haughty face, nor tremble at her 
taunts. If I am to die, I will evince no cowardly 
spirit, but will meet my fate bravely as becomes one 
who is guiltless of offence.” 

A ghostly light flickered over the apartment; the 
dwarf advanced, the woman followed him, and the 
maiden was seized by an almost overpowering 
faintness as she recognized old Guatavita, the witch 
of the Black Tarn. 

“My God!” she cried, a deathly pallor over- 
spreading her features, “is this the companion you 
promised me? Am I to be placed under the sur- 
veillance of this fearful creature?” 

The dwarf laughed mockingly. 

“You have interpreted aright, my fair lady,” he 
replied. “This is your duenna and doubt not but 
that she will prove faithful to her trust. No bribes 
can induce her to assist you in escaping, so you need 
not waste your breath in the effort. My pretty 
prison-bird must remain in her cavern chamber until 
she consents to leave it for a home with me.” 

“Begone, monster!” commanded the maiden, her 


THE STRANGE GUEST 


235 


eyes blazing with a righteous indignation. ‘‘Be- 
gone and intrude not your hateful presence upon 
me again. Death would be a thousand times pre- 
ferable to the fate you have in store for me. I 
defy you to make me your wife! I would sooner 
beat my head against my prison walls and fill a 
suicide’s unhonored grave than to yield myself into 
your hands.” 

The dwarf bit his nether lip in fierce anger and 
for a moment his stiff red hair fairly bristled; he 
could scarcely restrain himself from dealing the 
offender a severe blow, but conquering his wrath he 
placed upon the floor a large basket heaped with 
grapes, muscadines and several varieties of nuts, 
saying: 

“These are my offerings to the fair mistress of 
my establishment, whose larder I dare say sadly 
needs replenishing. My dear, welcome your guest, 
with whom you doubtless remember you have had 
some previous acquaintance.” 

The witch stretched out one of her long, bony 
hands as if to clutch the maiden, but the latter re- 
coiled with horror, crying passionately: 

“Touch me not, woman. I have done you no 
harm. Remain here, if you will, be a spy upon 
my actions, if you choose, prevent me from ever 
again beholding my friends, if you can, from ever 
leaving this dungeon to look upon the glories of 
God’s beautiful world, if it lies in your power; but 
lay not your polluted hand upon me.” 

The toothless hag glared upon her, muttering an 
inarticulate anathema, but made no further attempt 
to touch the girl, whom she hated with all the fero- 
city of her nature, merely because she was young 


236 


GENEVIEVE 


and beautiful, and presented to her, in her filthy 
rags, such a striking contrast. 

The dwarf ascended the ladder and soon re- 
turned, bringing a portmanteau, which he laid at the 
captive’s feet, telling her that it contained apparel 
belonging to Mrs. Stella Lorraine, who, not desir- 
ing to be encumbered with any burden in her haste 
to be off, had left it at the hovel near the Black 
Tarn. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


AN AWFUL PRESENCE 
Spirit with the drooping wing. 

— Croly. 


“Deep, thoughtful eyes, 

Seeming, through their lashes bright, 
Jewels set in golden light, 

Dropped from the skies.” 


Days and weeks glided away. Our heroine 
passed her sleepless nights upon the bed of straw; 
another of leaves had been piled up in a distant cor- 
ner for the witch. The dwarf had supplied each 
of them with a pair of fine new blankets, reserving 
a similar pair for his own use. These, together 
with many other articles, had been stolen from the 
stores at Glenville. Their food consisted princi- 
pally of bread made of Indian meal, the dwarf hav- 
ing stolen a quantity of corn from the cultivated 
portions of the river bottoms and stored it away 
for just such an emergency. A small hominy mill 
had been bought at some previous time, and old 
?37 


238 


GENEVIEVE 


Guatavita’s daily occupation, besides keeping guard 
over the maiden, was to grind corn. Occasionally 
the dwarf stole out and after having been away for 
some time would return, ladened with grapes, mus- 
cadines, sparkleberries and various kinds of nuts. 
At other times he would bring fish fresh from the 
stream and game from the forest. 

Genevieve refused food until her famished na- 
ture cried out against further abstinence. She 
loathed that prepared by the witch, and often ate 
only red or black haws for dinner, or something 
of that description, which scarcely nourished her, 
though they sustained life. 

The master of the establishment, having made it 
his home for months, was supplied with a few cook- 
ing utensils, some old cracked dishes and a few other 
articles necessary to housekeeping. His bed was 
made in the vestibule, as he chose to call it, and he 
scarcely ever intruded himself upon our heroine, 
preferring, as he said, to win her consent by gentle 
means if possible. But lately he had ordered her 
in a threatening manner to be prepared with her 
answer by the first of December if she did not de- 
sire him to resort to violent measures. 

Genevieve’s health was rapidly failing; her hands 
had become emaciated and transparent. Like a 
sweet flower borne from the warm sunshine to the 
cold, dark shade, she withered perceptibly in the 
damp underground cavern. The weather was often 
intensely cold; fires were kindled morning and even- 
ing upon the rocky floor, but their ghostly lights 
only served to make the prison more weird and 
gloomy. 

Genevieve found herself compelled to resort to 


AN AWFUL PRESENCE 


239 


the traveling bag belonging to Stella Lorraine and 
brought for her use by the dwarf. It contained two 
complete sets of underclothes, a pair of cloth gait- 
ers, a dress and a sacque of some soft slate-colored 
material, collars, cuffs, belts, handkerchiefs, comb, 
brush, soap and towels. Our heroine was thankful 
when she discovered that she could still perform 
her ablutions and attire herself in fresh, clean gar- 
ments. 

The dwarf frequently went away, remaining ab- 
sent a day or two at a time, hovering unseen about 
the stores in the village, or the poultry-yards in the 
country. One morning just before his departure 
he descended into the cavern, and regarding the 
maiden who sat listlessly upon her bed, asked: 

“How fares my pretty prison-bird? Does she 
pine for freedom? Will she hie away with me 
to some fair bower, where her life shall glide 
sweetly along with no dark clouds nor rude winds 
to disturb her?” 

“Give me back my freedom,” besought the pale 
captive in a plaintive tone. “Let me go back to 
my kindred that I may lay me down and die in 
peace. Do you not see that this imprisonment is 
destroying my life? Even now I am approaching 
the verge of the grave.” 

The monster replied cynically: 

“Do you imagine that I would release you now, 
when you are almost subdued, when I am almost 
victorious? Do you suppose for a moment that I 
would abandon my hopes at this late hour, when I 
have been entertaining and encouraging them for 
months? No, — no, girl! A thousand times, no! 
I have waited too long already. Many and many a 


240 


GENEVIEVE 


time have I sat beneath your chamber window, long- 
ing yet scarcely daring to ascend to it by means of 
the ladder, which I ever kept concealed in the 
bushes, hoping to be able to put my purpose into 
execution. I loved you, but I loved gold better; 
and the woman promised me that if 1 would de- 
stroy your life, she would give me gold, — bright 
gold, — shining gold, — omnipotent gold. But when 
1 found that you were not drowned I determined 
to save you for myself, and we bargained to that 
effect. She was to resign her claims on you in my 
favor, if I would place you forever beyond the 
reach of Vivian Bertram. You will bear me witness 
that I have faithfully performed the obligation rest- 
ing upon me.” 

“Tell me,” said Genevieve, “how you gained ad- 
mittance to the mansion, and how she, the woman, — 
Stella Lorraine, — forced an entrance?” 

The dwarf hesitated, but finally said: 

“Well, — well, I will gratify your wish, since you 
can never leave this place alive. Know, then, that 
a few years ago Mr. Bertram employed me to re- 
pair that portion of the wall adjacent to the lake 
or pond. About the same time Mrs. Stella Lor- 
raine came to the neighborhood on one of her sec- 
ret visits, and hearing of my occupation from her 
hostess,” pointing to the witch, “sought an inter- 
view with me, and bribed me to construct the wall 
so that a part of it could be removed at will. To 
hear was to obey, so I managed by some means or 
other to insert a sliding stone without Mr. Bertram’s 
knowledge.” 

“I had a suspicion of the truth,” murmured the 
maiden, partly to herself. 


AN AWFUL PRESENCE 241 

The dwarf remained silent for a moment, then 
added: 

“I am going away to be absent several days. 
Mrs. Stella Lorraine wishes to have proof positive 
from my own lips that you are safely hidden; then 
she intends to absent herself for a while, — in fact, 
until everything becomes quiet again, when she will 
return and open her battery upon her husband. 
She will doubtless throw herself upon his protection, 
proclaim her innocence, avow her undying love in 
a melodramatic style, lay all the blame of your 
abduction upon me and yonder comely dame,” in- 
dicating with his finger old Guatavita, “declare that 
your ears deceived you on the night of your plunge- 
bath, that she was not one of the party, her ven- 
geance having already been accomplished, that she 
did not in reality meditate your injury, that she only 
wished to be reunited to the husband she loved so 
tenderly, to rid herself of so dangerous a rival, 
that she might the better be enabled to regain his 
heart, and so on. 

“Stella Lorraine has a plausible tongue as well 
as a bonny face, and now that you are out of the 
way, Vivian Bertram will be more than mortal if 
he resists her honeyed flatteries. He loved her 
once; he will love her again, though she does not 
care as much for that, nor count as much upon its 
restoration as she does upon being able to humble 
his overweening pride. Rather than that she should 
avow herself his wife if he really never means to 
acknowledge her as such, rather than that his pri- 
vate affairs should be trumpeted over the country, — 
throughout the length and breadth of the state, — 
he would settle upon her a nice little sum, say, one 


242 


GENVEIEVE 


hundred thousand dollars. That would be a suf- 
ficient recompense for slighted love, would it not?” 

“Ah! that is what she is aiming at, then!” ex- 
claimed our heroine. 

“You speak the truth now,” replied the dwarf. 
“She is the most mercenary woman I ever saw. 
Mammon is her god, and if Mr. Bertram had given 
her a portion of his fortune, she would have been 
perfectly satisfied as long as it lasted.” 

“If you resemble her in that respect, why not re- 
lease me? My brother would reward you bounti- 
fully, would enrich you beyond your highest ex- 
pectations.” 

“Be silent, girl!” returned the dwarf, glowering 
darkly. “Money could not repay me for your loss 
now. I want you for my wife and mine you shall 
be, though all the devils in hell interpose to pre- 
vent. I am going to leave you for awhile, but when 
I come again I shall expect to find you submissive 
to my will. If you cannot be conquered by fair 
means, you shall be by foul.” 

“With this he turned and strode toward the lad- 
der, which he ascended; then he drew it up after 
him. Soon the sliding noise was heard, and our 
heroine knew that he was gone. The old crone 
muttered : 

“Ye be allers gwine, Ranald McEagh, and leav- 
ing me shut up in this dark hole with the gal, not 
avin a-lettin’ the ladder stay fur me to dim’, nor 
a-tellin’ me the sacret of the spring in the stone, lest 
I might give the gal her freedom. ’Sposin’ ye should 
die some time or ither, an’ I should niver git out 
agin.” 

Genevieve shuddered. 


AN AWFUL PRESENCE 243 

“Is there no other opening in the cave?” she in- 
quired. 

“Yis, to be sure there be, or else how could the 
owls and the bats git in here? But there be none 
fur ye unliss ye kin take wings and fly up above ye, 
where ye may find plenty of holes, ye pale fool ! 
Why don’t ye give up to Ranald McEagh inny- 
how? He’s nice enough for ye innytime.” 

“Oh, that I could return to my brother!” mur- 
mured the captive. “Oh, that I could see my friends 
again! Life has become a tiresome burden and I 
long to cast it off. My God! hear my prayer and 
restore me to my brother, or take me to Thyself in 
heaven.” 

“An’ who be yer brother?” asked old Guatavita. 

For a moment our heroine was tempted not to 
reply, but she did not wish to exasperate the old 
crone and thereby add to the wretchedness of her 
prison life, so she answered: 

“Victor St. Julian.” 

A strange look passed over the old woman’s 
face, which resembled a yellow and moth-eaten 
parchment. 

“I thought yer name wus De Vere,” she ejacu- 
lated. 

“I thought so myself,” rejoined the maiden, “but 
I have lately discovered that my father, whose real 
name was St. Julian, assumed that of De Vere for 
the purpose of recovering a lost son, whose ab- 
ductor, he feared, would recognize the cognomen 
of St. Julian and place the child beyond his reach.” 

“Who stole the chile?” questioned the witch in a 
whisper. 

“An old Gipsy fortune-teller. She carried him 


244 


GENEVIEVE 


to New York and sold him to Mr. and Mrs. Fair- 
mont, a childless pair, who reared him as their own 
son.” 

“Whin wus the chile stole?” 

“You are strangely interested in my brother,” 
said Genevieve, bending a scrutinizing glance upon 
the creature. “Do you know anything of the person 
who abducted him?” 

“Whin wus he stole?” she repeated. 

“About twenty-two years ago now.” 

“Who wus he took from?” 

“Woman,” exclaimed Genevieve sternly, “since 
you are so curious I will tell you. My brother was 
borne away from Bertram manor by Marion Ber- 
tram, the maniac daughter of its master. She gave 
him to the Gipsy fortune-teller, who, I believe, is 
now called old Guatavita, the witch of the Black 
Tarn.” 

A sudden conviction of the truth had dawned 
upon our heroine. The woman’s persistent ques- 
tioning had opened her eyes. A shrill, cracked 
laugh rang through the apartment and the crone re- 
plied in triumphant tones: 

“Ye’s right now, ye is. I wus the one that strange 
gal brought the chile to. She burnt marks upon 
hit, too, — a cross on his throat, a star on his wrist. 
I wundered ’bout, fust on the stage-top, thin on 
the cars, fur I had money made by fortin-tellin’ to 
fools, ’til I rached N’York. There I went to the 
Five P’int’s where I had frien’s. One day I wus 
a-walkin’ in the streets, a-makin’ the chile beg by 
holdin’ out his han’s to passers, whin up drives a 
fine carriage wid a lady and gintleman, and whin 


AN AWFUL PRESENCE 


245 


they sees the chile they stops and axes ’bout him, 
an’ whin I tells them they offers to buy him, a-tryin’ 
to make me tell all the time who be his pappy and 
mammy. But I niver tole, though the gal tole me 
their names. They traded me outen his fine clothes 
an’ a roun’ gold piece wid his folks’ picters, which 
he wore whin he come to me. I sold him for much 
money, thin come back to git more outen the gal, 
but she wus crazy, and I was a-gittin’ too old to 
travel, so I takes up my quarters in the desarted 
cabin, where some of the niggers use to live, and the 
man, he niver turned me out.” 

Genevieve remained silent — language was inade- 
quate to express her abhorrence of the miserable old 
wretch. On the second night after the dwarf’s de- 
parture she was aroused by a peculiar noise, a noise 
as if some one was in dire distress. She raised her- 
self to a sitting posture and listened eagerly. The 
sound was repeated. It seemed to proceed from the 
corner occupied by old Guatavita. Genevieve sprang 
up, and hastening to the smouldering fire, re- 
plenished it with some pine cones. They soon 
blazed and illuminated the apartment, enabling the 
maiden to obtain a view of her jailer. 

The old creature was having a terrific spasm; the 
very pangs of death had seized upon her and her 
frame was writhing fearfully. Her countenance was 
distorted, her eyes were walled back and set, as if 
she were in dissolution, while a bloody froth issued 
from her distended nostrils and oozed between her 
clenched teeth. Our heroine sank upon her knees 
in a mute appeal to heaven. In her young life she 
had beheld many fearful scenes — scenes that now 


246 


GENEVIEVE 


rushed back to memory in all their vividness — but 
never had she witnessed anything so revolting as 
the spectacle before her. She had watched the 
lazzaroni that thronged the streets of Rome, Flor- 
ence and Naples, begging for alms, while their 
bones almost protruded from the skin and their 
hands resembled birds’ claws, so reduced were they 
from actual starvation. She had beheld a traveler, 
who had fallen over a precipice in the Pyrenees, 
dashed to pieces upon jutting rocks; she had wit- 
nessed the deaths of her mother and father and 
Marion Bertram, but they were nothing compared 
to this. 

“My God!” she cried aloud, when her speech was 
recovered, “what can I do to arrest this fearful 
convulsion, to avert a speedy death from overtaking 
her in her expiated crimes? What can I do, O 
gracious Father, to prevent her from shortly stand- 
ing before Thy righteous tribunal without one plea 
for her salvation, to prevent the sentence of the 
damned from being passed upon her and her soul 
hurled into the companionship of fiends?” 

The maiden’s voice died away in a wild, pro- 
longed sob of anguish, and she fell prone upon the 
floor, where she lay for many moments, silently 
pleading with God for mercy to the departing spirit. 
When she arose and directed her eyes to the spot 
where the woman lay she saw that all was over, and 
her soul froze with horror when she remembered 
that she was alone in a gloomy underground cavern 
with a corpse — with death in its ghastliest form. 

Days passed — days of suspense, of agony in- 
tolerable. The dwarf, who only intended to be ab- 


AN AWFUL PRESENCE 


247 


sent a short time, did not return. The helpless cap- 
tive, confined in a dreary dungeon, without one 
glimmer of light from the outside world, — for night 
had dropped her sable curtain and banished the 
straggling sunbeams that sometimes forced an en- 
trance, — without one hope of escape. Shut in with 
a ghastly, swollen corpse, she was rapidly nearing 
the verge of insanity. Already had decomposition 
made rapid progress, hastened perhaps by a sudden 
moderation in the temperature of the weather — 
already had the foul, the disgusting odors exhaled 
from the carcass of the old witch filled the apart- 
ment. 

Genevieve had lain for hours upon her pallet of 
straw, her hands raised in supplication to heaven, 
her motionless form resembling some fallen, classi- 
cal Caryatide, but she had ceased to pray. The knell 
of despair was sounding in her ears; the demon of 
starvation had seized upon her vitals. She had con- 
sumed the remnant of food left to her, and in vain 
had she drunk of the small streams that gurgled 
through the cavern. A burning thirst had parched 
her tongue, making it cleave to the roof of her 
mouth. She felt that all the icy waters of the 
Catawba could not have satisfied her. 

Stronger and stronger grew the sickening stench, 
fiercer and fiercer became the demons of hunger 
and thirst, louder and louder tolled the death-knell 
of hope, wilder and wilder grew the captive maid. 

Another hour of such bitter woe and our tale 
would have been ended — Genevieve St. Julian would 
have been a maniac. But the “darkest hour is just 
before dawn,” figuratively and literally, and the 


248 GENEVIEVE 

time-honored proverb proved to be true in our 
heroine’s case. 

As her senses were about to forsake her they 
were recalled by the sliding noise made by the re- 
volving stone. With an inarticulate cry she feebly 
arose to her feet, keeping her face averted from 
the putrid corpse, now the food of the scavengers 
of death. 

Very soon light steps were heard approach- 
ing the verge of the perpendicular descent, and our 
heroine, looking up, her eyes accustomed to the 
darkness, beheld a human form, which to her 
seemed an angel of beauty. The creature bore in 
her hands a flickering torch, but its feeble light 
scarcely penetrated into the gloomy depths below 
her. Her figure was so diminutive that she might 
have been taken for a descendant of the Liliputians. 

“Who’s there?” came from her parted lips in 
tones as soft and sweet as the ravishing music made 
by Memnon’s stone when the first beams of the 
rising sun strike it with thrilling power. “Who’s 
there?” repeated the voice. “What means this 
strange odor that would even nauseate the vultures 
of the forest that circle around this cave, were they 
permitted to enter here?” 

“I am just beneath you,” answered our heroine, 
who had approached the spot where the ladder was 
invariably planted. “I am a helpless girl, confined 
in this cavern by the dwarf, Ranald McEagh; until 
recently watched by old Guatavita, the witch of the 
Black Tarn, who now lies dead. I have been for- 
saken by the black-hearted villain who abducted 
me — left to perish, to be poisoned by the offensive 
odors emanating from the decaying body.” 


AN AWFUL PRESENCE 


249 


“Great Spirit, have mercy!” cried the bright 
stranger, recoiling in horror. 

“Leave me not!” shrieked the captive wildly. 
“Leave me not! Free me from the horrors of this 
living tomb ; let me breathe the fresh air of heaven 
again, and I will love thee, bless thee, pray for thee, 
bright spirit, whoever thou art.” 

The strange visitor, recalled to her mind by this 
wild appeal, hurried back to the edge and exclaimed: 

“How shall I rescue thee? How didst thou de- 
scend to that gloomy depth, impervious to the sun, 
forsaken by the moon, and disowned by the little 
stars? Tell me, thou unhappy lady, — thou child of 
sorrow, even as I myself am, thou victim of an un- 
kind destiny, deserted alike by friend and foe?” 

“There was a ladder,” replied the feeble voice 
from the pit. “If the dwarf did not remove it, it 
is still there.” 

“Ah, I see! Canst climb if I lower it?” 

“If God will give me strength.” 

Slowly and steadily the ladder descended, and 
with feeble, tottering steps our heroine commenced 
its ascent. When she neared the top the unknown 
person assisted her with outstretched hands, and 
when the task was completed hurried her to the 
aperture, pushing her hastily through, and saying 
as she followed: 

“Speed thee, lest he come upon us, like a ravening 
wolf, and confine us both in this drear catacomb.” 

“Who art thou?” asked the released maiden, in- 
voluntarily adopting the sylph’s mode of question- 
ing, as she stepped once more into the open air and 
stood again beneath the blue vault of heaven, blaz- 
ing with myriads of twinkling stars. 


250 


GENEVIEVE 


“When my pale-faced lover lived I was called 
the Golden Beam,” replied the unknown one in a 
plaintive voice, “but now they name me Wandering 
Spirit, for he is dead, peace to his ashes, which rest 
beneath a heap of crumpled rocks in yonder cavern.” 


CHAPTER XIX 

THE INDIAN GIRL’S LAMENT FOR HER LOVER 

Farewell! I’ll wait in patience till the great momentous day 
Shall wake to heav’n’s supernal bliss thy body’s mould’ring clay, 
For I know that thou art gone to that joy-illumined shore, 
Where sorrow resteth on thy stricken spirit nevermore. 

— W. F. Holmes. 


My bride, my wife, my life. 

— T enny son’s “Princess” 

As the sprite spoke she threw her torch upon the 
ground, extinguishing its light by trampling upon it 
with her small feet, which were encased in stout 
leather shoes. She was clad in a short gown of 
blood-red flannel, confined at the waist by a black 
girdle; upon her head was a jaunty cap, containing a 
single sable feather, while her neck and wrists were 
adorned with strings of gay beads, and ponderous 
golden hoops hung pendant from her ears. Gene- 
vieve had looked wonderingly upon her, and re- 
gretted that her dark, bright face with its jet black 
orbs and veil of long, straight, midnight hair was 
no longer clearly visible. 

“How happened it that you knew the secret of the 
hidden spring?” she questioned. 

251 


252 


GENEVIEVE 


“I will tell thee,” answered the forest maiden, 
speaking in the metaphorical style peculiar to the 
Indians. “Many moons ago a pale-faced youth with 
eyes like the burning stars and locks like the raven’s 
plume wandered away from home and kindred to 
the swiftly rolling river, where dwelt the red men 
of the wood. Long before had my tribe buried the 
tomahawk and smoked the calumet of peace with 
the white man, who was as a mighty torrent dash- 
ing headlong in its course, neither pausing for rocks 
nor any other obstructions that dared to impede its 
onward way. So the pale-faced youth, with his 
heavenly eyes and flowing hair, was at liberty to 
come and go at will, — to chase the trembling deer 
or ensnare the timid fish, — to linger in the forest 
shades, or loiter at the red man’s door. I, — the 
Golden Beam, — the pride of the Catawbas, — was 
then in the bloom of a peerless beauty, — graceful as 
the drooping willow, — swift as the fleeting fawn, — 
bright as a twinkling star. My father had promised 
that I should be the squaw of the Eagle’s Feather, 
who had gone to the great Father of Waters to 
chase for a season the growling bear and leaping 
panther. He was a mighty warrior, — a bold and 
fearless hunter; but I loved him not. I gazed with 
repugnance upon his swarthy visage, his piercing 
eye, his giant frame, and his brawny arm. I feared 
him as I feared the prowling wolf, and often he 
glared upon me when I refused to enter his gloomy 
wigwam, which stood alone, removed from those 
of the other members of the tribe. When he bade 
me farewell he swore a fearful oath, — calling upon 
the Great Spirit and the shades of the departed 
braves to witness it, that if I did not consent to be 


THE INDIAN GIRL’S LAMENT 253 


his squaw when he returned I should find a grave 
beneath the bright translucent waves of the rushing 
Catawba. During his absence came the noble white 
man, dawning upon my enraptured vision like the 
morning sun. He was fair to behold, — wondrously 
beautiful, — and soon he became my all of light and 
life, of hope and joy, of peace and love. Day after 
day he strolled with me into the woodland, twining 
wreaths around my midnight hair, gathering pale 
daisies and purple violets and green mosses to deck 
my favorite sylvan seats. Oft would we wander by 
the wave-washed shore and listen to the wild bird’s 
song, while he, pulse of my heart, star of my life, 
would dip the crystal water with his lily hand and 
sprinkle it upon my uncovered head. Again, we 
would recline upon some grassy bank or Indian 
mound watching the fleecy clouds go by, or directing 
our gaze to the bright river, glistening in the golden 
light, where fluttered the water-fowl or dashed the 
sparkling foam. At night when the stars peeped out 
or the moon paddled her silver canoe across the 
great blue sea above he would linger by my side in 
my father’s tent, telling me of his distant home and 
kindred, teaching me the manners and language of 
his race. Ah, how I loved him! We looked into 
each other’s eyes as the full round moon looks into 
the transparent wave, and each saw the other’s 
image reflected there. One night, — ah, how well do 
I remember, — we sat beneath the clustering branches 
of a giant forest tree, gazing into the limpid depths 
of the river, whose bosom was as a mirror, reveal- 
ing innumerable trembling stars, which the dimpled 
waves had caught in their embrace and held lovingly 
there.” 


254 


GENEVIEVE 


The stranger paused and heaved a deep and 
mournful sigh. She had drawn the orphan to an 
inlet, hidden among the rocks, where a tiny Indian 
canoe was tranquilly resting upon the silvery waters. 
Stepping in and bidding the maiden follow, she dis- 
engaged it from the fastenings, and dipping her oar 
into the river, soon paddled out into the stream. 

“Tell me whither thou wouldst go, Mournful 
Dove,” she said in her peculiarly clear, sweet voice. 
“Tell me whither thou wouldst go, that I may di- 
rect my course thither. Thou shalt see that the Wan- 
dering Spirit can bear thee safely across the rapid 
river.” 

“Guide your bark to the other shore,” answered 
our heroine. “Thence I can find my way back to 
my friends.” 

“Thou art weak and faint from hunger. Partake 
thou of this I give to thee and thou shalt soon be 
stronger.” 

She drew from her pocket a small parcel bound 
up in a gay handkerchief, consisting of a cake made 
of Indian meal and a delicate broiled partridge. 

“This,” she said, “I brought with me as I sailed 
up the river, on my way to spend the night near the 
cave where my lost love reposes, for know thou 
that this is the anniversary of his most unhappy 
death.” 

The sight of food was disgusting to the almost 
famished maiden; she had gone beyond the point 
where nourishment could be relished. Neverthe- 
less, she compelled herself to swallow several mouth- 
fuls. 

The Indian maid resumed her story. “As I told 
thee, we sat beneath the starry sky, gazing into the 


THE INDIAN GIRL’S LAMENT 255 


liquid depths, when a wild warwhoop rang through 
the forest, echoing and reechoing from shore to 
shore. I sprang to my feet and soon beheld the 
advancing form of Eagle’s Feather, who bore in his 
hand an uplifted tomahawk. He was followed by 
several members of the tribe, each bearing aloft a 
flaming torch. My lover would not flee, would not 
forsake me. On came the fierce chief, brandishing 
his deadly weapon, his painted face more terrible to 
behold than the glaring eyes of a perishing wolf. 
He had returned to the encampment and inquired 
for me. Some evil spirit, intent upon mischief, told 
him that I was on the river shore with my pale- 
faced lover. Fie swore a terrible oath of vengeance 
and hastened to destroy my peace. Perceiving that 
my heart of hearts would not depart without me, I 
started and ran like the swift-footed fawn; he fol- 
lowed me and Eagle’s Feather, with his braves, came 
on in rapid pursuit. I darted into the open cavern 
and with a light bound cleared the distance from the 
edge above to the depths below; the pale face sprang 
after me and for hours we remained there, trembling 
and panting, waiting until the Indians should extend 
their search beyond the river. Eagle’s Feather 
and his men passed by, thinking that we had plunged 
into the water and swum to the other shore. But 
anon they remembered the cave, for all were ac- 
quainted with its locality, and with a demoniacal 
whoop they rushed into our hiding-place. Not find- 
ing us in the upper part, they leaped like devouring 
panthers into the lower. My lover stood against the 
wall and I could see by the glare of the torches that 
he was pale, but resolute. I crouched at his feet, 
moaning aloud in the anguish of my soul, for I knew 


GENEVIEVE 


256 

that he would surely be slain. The Eagle’s Feather 
spumed me with his foot and when I fell, stamped 
upon my prostrate form. My lover came to my aid, 
but he was seized, his arms pinioned behind him, 
and soon I was drawn by a rope to the floor above 
and borne lifeless, bruised and bleeding to the In- 
dian village. 

“When I at length recovered and asked for my 
love, they led me into the cavern, and pointing to 
the pile of crumbled rocks, told me that Eagle’s 
Feather had buried his dead body beneath it. I 
tried with my puny hands to remove the heavy 
stones, but my strength failed, and I was a second 
time borne fainting to my father’s wigwam. The 
Eagle’s Feather never came near me again. He 
was soon afterward bitten by a rattlesnake; the 
deadly venom diffused itself throughout his blood 
and destroyed his life. My tribe has vanished like 
the morning vapor before the sun’s bright beams, 
and the white man is chief. My gray-haired father 
and his broken-hearted child dwell alone in the deep- 
est shade of the gloomy forest. Every year, on the 
anniversary of my lover’s death, I make a pilgrim- 
age to the cave, spending the night in prayer. Once 
I came and found that his tomb had another occu- 
pant, — a red-haired, green-eyed monster, fearful to 
behold. Concealing myself behind a tree, I watched 
his movements. Little dreaming that a spy was 
near, he rounded a stone, fitting it into the aperture 
and fastening it by a secret spring. When he had 
gone I crept like a stealthy cat to the place, nor did 
I leave until his secret was my own, for which I 
thank the Great Spirit.” 

She suddenly ceased, for they had gained the op- 


THE INDIAN GIRL’S LAMENT 257 


posite shore; and securing her little canoe, she as- 
sisted Genevieve to clamber up the bank. 

“Farewell, sweet Drooping Lily,” she said mourn- 
fully. “Go thou back to friends and home and pale- 
faced lover. Let me haste to the cave where the 
foul carcass bears my love company. I must kneel 
without and pray that I may join him soon, not in 
the pleasant hunting-grounds, for he went not 
thither, but on some silvery lake bordered with flow- 
ers, where he paddles his light canoe the livelong 
day.” 

She sank upon her knees, and catching the maid- 
en’s hand, pressed it passionately to her brow, cheek 
and lips while she murmured: 

“The Great Spirit bless thee, for thou art of the 
pale faces, even as he was. I love thee because thy 
brow is fair like the snow and the blood of the 
white man flows through thy veins, as it did through 
his. Oh, my lover, my lover!” she continued, rais- 
ing her dewy eyes to heaven. “Thou art gone from 
me and the sun no longer shines, — the moon hath 
lost its brightness; its beams are ghostly and the 
little stars have paled. The flowers no longer 
bloom, — they lie fallen and withered. The forest 
birds are silent, — the river rushes on, but its waters 
murmur no music to mine ear. They only chant thy 
funeral dirge, beloved, and not our marriage hymn, 
as they were wont to do in bygone days. Would 
that thy form was laid beside the stream in the 
sacred earth where daisies bloom, ’neath the cluster- 
ing wildwood, or in the oak’s majestic shade, that I 
might keep my lonely vigils near and bedew thy 
grave with loving tears. No more shalt thou awake 
at the baying of thy noble hound, nor the neighing 


258 


GENEVIEVE 


of thy stately steed. Thy toil is over, thy race 
is run, and thou art gone from her who loved thee 
well. Thy glorious head with its flowing locks is 
laid low, thy face in all its bright, bewildering 
beauty hath mouldered to dust. Would that I were 
lying by thee in thy dreamless sleep, or if the Great 
Spirit hath taken thee to himself, would that I were 
there, beholding the glories of which thou didst tell 
me years ago. To thy God, whom thou didst wor- 
ship, I freely give thee, if He will but permit me 
when I die to join thee in the white man’s heaven. 
I will await in patience the coming of the angel and 
smile when he closes my eyelids in everlasting sleep, 
if he will but bear me on his shining wings to thy 
dear side, my love, my chief, my king.” 

Her voice with its touching pathos ceased, and 
silence reigned for a moment; then Genevieve, gently 
caressing her raven hair, murmured: 

“There is but one God, — thine and mine. Love 
Him, trust Him, and He will never leave thee nor 
forsake thee. Come with me, sweet spirit, to my 
home, — there thou shalt have friends and all that 
thy warm heart could desire. The pale faces will 
love thee even as if thou wert one of them. I will 
be to thee as a fond sister, anticipating thy every 
wish, sharing thy every thought, proving to thee the 
boundless gratitude I feel for my timely rescue from 
a charnel house.” 

“Nay, I cannot go. My gray-haired sire is alone 
in his forest home, and I must speed me back to 
him when the morning dawns. Go thou in peace, 
nor burden thy memory with dreams and visions of 
the Indian maid.” 

Genevieve reverently kissed the dusky brow and 


THE INDIAN GIRL’S LAMENT 259 


lingered until the plashing of oars reminded her that 
the sprite was gone; then she hurried away as fast 
as her feeble feet would bear her into the gloomy 
woods. 

The Wandering Spirit slowly sailed across the 
sparkling waves, her bosom heaving with emotion, 
her thoughts dwelling alternately upon the de- 
parted hero and the fugitive maiden. 

The night was clear, but intensely cold. The 
magnificent constellations of Orion and Cassiopeia 
blazed with unclouded splendor. As our heroine 
threaded her way through the tangled undergrowth 
she raised her glowing eyes and gazed through the 
dim, lofty forest aisles to the glittering vault. The 
transcendent brightness of the scene imparted cour- 
age to her heart and strength to her weary limbs. 
She softly repeated: 

u He is wise in heart and mighty in strength: who 
hath hardened himself against Him and hath pros- 
pered? 

“Which removeth the mountains and they know 
not. Which overturneth them in His anger. 

“Which shaketh the earth out of her place, and 
the pillars thereof tremble. 

“Which commandeth the sun, and it riseth not; 
and sealeth up the stars. 

“Which alone spreadeth out the heavens, and 
treadeth upon the waves of the sea. 

“Which maketh Arcturus, Orion and Pleiades, 
and the chambers of the South. 

“Which doeth great things past finding out; yea, 
and wonders without number.” 

“Surely, O my Father,” she added “if Thou 
couldst perform all those miracles, Thou canst pro- 


26 o 


GENEVIEVE 


tect a poor, helpless wanderer, alone in the night, 
without one friend to guide her tottering footsteps 
into the right path.” 

A solemn stillness reigned throughout the for- 
est, interrupted only by the distant hoot of a dark 
night bird of evil omen and the plaintive cry of a 
lost lambkin. 

Slowly but steadily onward went the faint and 
trembling fugitive; ofttimes her strength would for- 
sake her and she would sink helplessly down upon 
the cold, damp earth, but as oft would her undaunted 
spirit rally to her aid and she would grasp some 
swaying limb or friendly shrub to assist her in aris- 
ing. 

The country she was traversing was wholly 
unknown to her, but she remembered the direction 
in which the vale lay, and bent her steps thither. 

The night wore on; the stillness grew more in- 
tense; the stars looked more pitiless, — the woods 
became darker, — the cold increased. 

Weaker and weaker grew the trembling girl, — 
fainter and fainter throbbed her weary heart. No 
longer was she appalled at the thought of pursuit, — 
no longer did she dread the red-haired dwarf. An- 
other and a more formidable enemy seemed to 
stand in her path. Death itself was about to en- 
close her slender form in his icy embrace. 

“Spare me, oh, spare me, my Father,” came in 
low, agonized tones from her white lips. “Let me 
look upon his face once more; let me hear his dear 
voice again; let me feel his loving arms around me 
twine ere I cross the foaming Jordan and stand 
upon the shores of eternity.” 

Hark! what was that? She started and turned 


THE INDIAN GIRL’S LAMENT 261 


to look, but the shadows were black and she could 
behold no living object. It came nearer, — the 
sound of horse’s feet; could it be the dwarf? No. 

The maiden in her anxiety forgot to be cautious; 
she stumbled; she lost her equilibrium and fell heav- 
ily upon the rustling leaves. There was a silence; 
then a deep, musical voice commanded : 

“Be still, Selim!” 

There was another silence, for the maiden w T as 
too much overcome to speak. She had recognized 
the voice and knew Selim to be the name of Mr. Ber- 
tram’s favorite horse. Suddenly the rider dis- 
mounted and approached the spot from which the 
noise had proceeded. Bending over the prostrate 
figure, he strained his eyes until its outlines became 
clearly defined. Genevieve, completely exhausted, 
but perfectly satisfied since she had heard that dear 
voice, lay motionless, scarcely able to articulate a 
a word. 

“Who is this?” at length asked the newcomer 
eagerly. 

“Genevieve,” whispered the maiden feebly. 

A wild cry of joy rang through the forest, and 
the man, almost as weak and helpless as the girl, 
clasped her in his arms, pressing her close to his 
heart and showering kiss after kiss upon her marble 
face. 

“My own,” he murmured, “my very own, my 
precious wife, have I found you after so many 
weary days only to lose you again? You are so 
cold, — your form is as nothingvTn my embrace, — 
your poor little hand is so emaciated. Genevieve, 
darling, speak to me; tell me that you are not going 
to die.” 


262 GENEVIEVE 

He placed his ear close to her mouth. She whis- 
pered: 

“I am very low and faint, but your love revives 
me. Would to God that you were in deed and in 
truth my husband.” 

“And am I not, my darling? Am I not your own 
husband? Did I not procure a legal divorce from 
that fiend in human form? Were we not united by 
a holy man of God, in the presence of witnesses?” 

“Ah, yes,” she answered, “my heart acknowledges 
you as such, but the monitor within my bosom does 
not endorse it.” 

She said nothing more, but lay motionless in his 
arms. He called her repeatedly, entreating her to 
answer him, bestowing upon her names of the fond- 
est endearment, but no reply came from her cold 
lips. 

Mr. Bertram had ridden out about nightfall 
scarcely hoping to discover any clue to our heroine’s 
hiding-place, yet shuddering at the very thought of 
relinquishing the search. He wandered about 
through the forest, dreading the gloomy return 
home, abhorring the idea of endeavoring to court 
sleep, for his bed had become as painful as that in- 
vented by the robber Procrustes. Slumber scarcely 
ever visited his eyelids, and his misery and restless- 
ness were rapidly undermining his health and wear- 
ing his life away. 

Mr. Bertram, on our heroine’s inability to reply, 
feared that she was dead, but she only seemed to 
have fallen asleep. When she found herself under 
his protection she felt safe, and exhausted nature 
yielded to the requirements of repose. Tenderly 
Mr. Bertram placed her before him on the noble 


THE INDIAN GIRL’S LAMENT 263 


steed and slowly and carefully did he thread his 
way through the forest on his return home. 

There was joy in Bertram manor that night, for 
the lost was found, but that joy was strangely 
blended with grief when they beheld the fearful 
ravages that imprisonment had made upon the 
loved one. Bitter tears were shed over her emaci- 
ated form and pallid face. Viola, with her own fair 
hands, disrobed the sufferer and with Clarinda’s as- 
sistance placed her in Mrs. Bertram’s bed. The 
latter prepared a glass of hot spiced wine of which 
our heroine partook and, her anxieties being over, 
she sank into a profound and refreshing sleep. 
After all, the mind governs the body. Be cheerful 
and you will be healthy. Be patient and you will 
be strong. 

On the following morning the maiden related her 
strange story to the four friends gathered around 
her bed. 


CHAPTER XX 


ADIEU TO THE VALE 

When hope is chidden, 

That fain of bliss would tell, 

And love forbidden 
In the breast to dwell : 

When fettered by a viewless chain, 

We turn and gaze and turn again, 

Oh ! nameless is the poignant pain 
Of those that bid farewell. 

The churchyard lone 

Lies sleeping by the hill in solemn sweetness, 
And tender moonlight, perfect in completness, 
Silvers each stone. 


The most powerful emotions were stirred in the 
bosoms of the hearers. It was scarcely possible to 
realize that so young and delicate a creature could 
have survived such privations. Victor St. Julian 
arose and paced the apartment, hardly able to with- 
stand his impatient desire to capture the dwarf and 
inflict upon him a terrible punishment. His sym- 
pathies were excited to the highest degree and he 
could scarcely restrain himself from giving vent to 
paroxysms of sorrow when his eyes rested upon the 
^ale face of his sister, who had been so tenderly 
nurtured, yet who for the last three months and 


ADIEU TO THE VALE 


265 


more had been enduring hardships that a man of 
iron constitution could ill have borne. Mr. Ber- 
tram sat with his haughty, handsome face buried in 
his hands, all the couchant lion in his fiery nature 
fully aroused. 

Mrs. Bertram and Viola wept copiously as they lis- 
tened to the plaintive melody of the girl’s tones and 
gazed upon her attenuated form. 

When Genevieve had finished the narration of her 
story she turned her starry eyes upon Mr. Bertram 
and softly called his name. In a moment he was 
at her side, the full splendor of his midnight orbs 
shining upon her face. She took his hand and pass- 
ing it caressingly across her faded cheek said in a 
faltering voice : 

“Dear sir, I have a painful duty to perform, and 
although it rends my heart and will grieve yours, yet 
nevertheless the sacrifice has to be made. We 
must either meet no more forever, or we must 
meet only as friends. You are my husband in the 
sight of the law, but only a few are aware of the 
fact, and they must be induced to maintain a secrecy 
in regard to the matter. I do not wish a divorce, — 
the very name is hateful to me; but if you should at 
any time desire one, — for it is perfectly natural that 
you should wish to marry, if you can find a woman 
less conscientious than myself, — do not hesitate a 
moment to inform me. I shall freely give my con- 
sent.” 

“Genevieve,” exclaimed Mr. Bertram, “your 
heart is as cold as the snows of Spitzbergen ! Do 
not, I entreat you, add insult to injury. You have 
already broken my heart, — do not wound my pride 
by insinuating that another can ever fill your place in 


266 


GENEVIEVE 


my affections. Leave me, seek another home if 
you will, but you cannot deprive me of your memory, 
which I shall ever cherish. You cannot tear your 
image from its temple in my heart. Until now I 
have cherished a lingering hope that you would re- 
lent, would yield to my prayers, but you have dis- 
pelled the delusive dream. Ah, Genevieve, you have 
been a cruel ignis-fatuus , luring me onward, yet ever 
eluding my grasp. All the happiness I promised 
myself has vanished. I stand alone, — a withered 
tree. What is all the world to me now? What is 
life? A desert waste, — a dreary hermitage.” 

“I feel that I am only doing my duty,” declared 
the girl, releasing his hand and clasping her own to- 
gether. “God would surely curse us if we dared to 
disobey his righteous commands. Oh, cold and 
cheerless indeed would be my existence, if I should 
lose favor with Him, Who hath been my comfort 
and my stay in all the dark hours through which I 
have so recently passed.” 

“Be it so, then,” said Mr. Bertram gloomily. 
“If I must choose between the two alternatives, I 
will select the latter, and I sacredly promise to 
observe the condition on which it is granted. I 
will neither intrude my love nor my sorrows upon 
you again.” 

Two weeks later Victor St. Julian, his wife and 
his sister bade farewell to the gloomy vale and 
started to New York. Mr. Bertram was true to his 
vow. 

He even accompanied the party to Glenville, 
assisted Genevieve to alight from the carriage, and 
remained by her side until she entered the stage; 
but no word of regret nor endearment passed his 


ADIEU TO THE VALE 267 

lips, — only the great veins on his temples, swollen 
to cords, bore silent witness to his suffering. Ere 
they had left the vale he had entreated Victor to 
consent that he should divide his fortune with Gene- 
vieve, but Victor steadfastly refused, as did his 
sister. 

The journey from Glenville to Monterosa and 
thence to Spring Vale was an uneventful one. Gene- 
vieve’s regrets were quiet and unobtrusive. She 
wished to disturb the happiness of the newly wedded 
pair as little as possible, so she forced herself to 
smile and to join in their conversation, digging a 
grave deep in her sad heart and burying her hope- 
less love there. Neither Mr. Bertram nor Victor 
St. Julian had any idea of relinquishing the search 
for the dwarf and Stella Lorraine. Victor, during 
his wanderings, had selected a home in one of the 
most delightful localities of South Carolina, and had 
been for some time negotiating with the owner for 
its purchase. The man had finally consented to his 
terms, and arrangements were being completed for 
a removal thither. 

Mr. Fairmont desired to present the plantation, 
well supplied with laborers, cattle and farm imple- 
ments, to the pair as a bridal gift. He had pre- 
ferred that they should have taken up their abode 
in New York, but when he discovered that his 
adopted son’s inclinations lay in a different direction 
he and his excellent wife were considerate enough 
not to display any opposition. 

When the stage came to a halt before the Rising 
Star, the little inn at Spring Vale, good Mrs. Browne 
was standing at the door, a benignant smile resting 
upon her plump, rosy face. She courtesied to the 


268 


GENEVIEVE 


newcomers, recognizing the young man by whom she 
had dispatched her letter to the orphan. 

“How is Miss De Vere?” she asked eagerly. 
“How is the dear young lady? Did she receive my 
letter and did she send me any message in return? I 
am more than anxious to hear from her.” 

Genevieve threw back her veil, revealing her 
familiar features to the astonished hostess. 

u My gracious!” she cried delightedly. “Here is 
Miss De Vere herself. Why, bless your heart, my 
dear, I never was so glad to see anybody before in 
my life.” 

She cordially embraced our heroine, who pre- 
sented her to Victor and his wife. Mrs. Browne’s 
astonishment and joy knew no bounds when she 
learned that the maiden had discovered her long-lost 
brother. 

“How fortunate you have been!” she exclaimed. 
“Mr. De Vere would have been so happy if he 
could have lived until now and enjoyed the society 
of his son. I was so afraid you would be displeased 
with me, Miss Genevieve, for forgetting about the 
letter. It was so careless in me, to be sure. Your 
dear father told me that he would have communi- 
cated its contents to you verbally, but that you al- 
ways wept so much when he mentioned leaving you 
alone in the world. He declared he could not wit- 
ness your grief.” 

Genevieve freely forgave the kind woman and 
proceeded to relate a portion of what had occurred 
during the last year. In the meantime the landlady 
had shown them into a snug little parlor, where a 
bright fire of anthracite coal was burning in the pol- 
ished grate. After they were comfortably seated 


ADIEU TO THE VALE 269 

and she had sufficiently congratulated them, Mrs. 
Browne went out to prepare tea. 

Directly a neat colored maid entered and an- 
nounced her readiness to conduct them to their 
apartments. Victor and Viola were to occupy the 
one formerly used by Mr. St. Julian, then known 
only as Mr. De Vere. Genevieve was ushered into 
the chamber previously belonging to herself. Every- 
thing was perfectly clean and fresh and a ruddy 
fire burned upon the hearth. Our heroine sighed 
and the tears trickled down her cheeks as she 
opened her large Saratoga trunk, which had been 
brought in and placed near the window. There in 
full view were her wedding dress and the casket of 
pearls. They were sad reminders of the unhappy 
past. After she had bathed, smoothed her hair and 
exchanged her collar and cuffs for whiter ones, she 
walked to the window and directed her gaze to the 
distant church with its symmetrical spire and shaded 
graveyard. The winter sun had gone down in bil- 
lowy flames of crimson and gold, and the pale face 
of Dian was just peeping from behind the eastern 
hills. A solemn hush rested upon the tiny pearl of 
a village, nestled among the hills, and the maiden 
felt as if she would like to remain there forever, — 
to make her permanent home near the last resting- 
place of her loved and honored dead. A sudden de- 
sire to be nearer seized upon her; acting on the im- 
pulse, she hastily donned her hat and sable furs, 
and descending the stairs, glided out into the de- 
serted street. Rapidly traversing it, she soon 
emerged into the open country, and a few moments 
later entered the lone garden of the dead, upon 
which the silvery moonlight lay in tranquil sweetness. 


270 


GENEVIEVE 


The maiden approached the spot where the author 
of her being had so long and so peacefully slum- 
bered. Kind Mrs. Browne had planted sweet violets 
and white roses near, but these had been stripped 
of their summer bloom and beauty and looked wan 
and cold in the shadowy twilight of the dying win- 
ter day. 

The orphan knelt down and kissed the grave, and 
sighs were heaved, and bitter prayers ascended to 
heaven from beneath the yew-tree’s melancholy 
shade. A half an hour had elapsed before she com- 
menced to retrace her steps. At the door of the inn 
she encountered her brother, who had discovered her 
absence and was anxiously expecting her return. 

Supper was announced and Genevieve ran upstairs 
to lay aside her hat and furs. A few moments later 
she appeared at the table, over which Mrs. Browne 
noisily presided. Genevieve felt much invigorated 
by her rapid exercise, and Victor noticed with de- 
light that a soft peach bloom had stolen into her 
hitherto pale cheeks. The supper did credit to the 
inn, and two of the travelers at least partook of the 
tempting viands with relish. Mrs. Browne was ex- 
ceedingly kind and attentive to Miss St. Julian, < — 
little dreaming that she was in reality Mrs. Ber- 
tram, the wife of a king among men. Our heroine 
did not betray her secret, and Victor and Viola were 
equally cautious. 

The following morning our little party visited the 
churchyard and Victor St. Julian gazed with regret 
upon the grave of the father whom he did not re- 
member; his thoughts wandered from that hallowed 
spot to another in a strange land where his beautiful 
unknown mother reposed beneath an alien sky. 


ADIEU TO THE VALE 


271 


It was decided that Viola and Genevieve should 
remain at the Rising Star under the protection of 
Mrs. Browne until Victor could visit Columbia, pur- 
chase a tombstone, return to Spring Vale, and have 
it erected over his father’s grave. 

Ten days later the trio stood at the carved door 
of a magnificent mansion with a brown stone front 
on Fifth Avenue, New York. Their reception was 
flattering in the extreme. Mr. and Mrs. Fairmont 
were the most courteous of people and every atten- 
tion was paid to their adopted son, to his charming 
wife whom they loved and admired, and to his grace- 
ful and accomplished sister. 

Genevieve found herself plunged into a perfect 
whirlpool of gaiety. Balls, concerts, dining-parties, 
operas, theatres, and so forth were the order of the 
day. Our heroine felt little interest in the amuse- 
ments of the season and would have preferred re- 
maining quietly at home, but the programmes of 
sight-seeing and enjoyment were arranged especially 
to divert her mind, and knowing this, she could 
not refuse to gratify her friends. Her exquisite 
classic loveliness attracted many admirers to her 
side; her affable manners and entertaining conversa- 
tion enchained them there and she was universally 
pronounced the brightest star in the galaxy of beauty. 

Her mourning had been laid aside, and costly 
gifts were pressed upon her acceptance by both her 
brother and his wife, for the latter was a great 
heiress in her own right. One afternoon a parcel 
was brought into her chamber where she sat en- 
gaged in reading, and on unfolding it she discovered 
the contents to be a beautiful cerulean silk trimmed 
with snowy ermine, a stiff rose-colored satin adorned 


272 


GENEVIEVE 


with the finest lace, a rich purple moire-antique, a 
Cashmere shawl, and an elegant black silk velvet hat 
ornamented with crimson ribbons and a graceful 
plume tipped with the same bright hue. The blue 
silk and pink satin were intended to be worn at 
soirees, et cetera , and were presents, together with 
the other articles, from Mrs. Fairmont, who, with 
the approbation of her husband, was most anxious 
to adopt the beautiful orphan as a daughter. 

Victor and his wife were busily engaged in select- 
ing and assorting furniture for the new household 
that was to be organized. Persian carpets, damask 
curtains, rosewood and mahogany furniture, glass, 
silver, and china were purchased, as well as a thou- 
sand other needful things, and they were boxed up 
in readiness for transportation. The visit of three 
months ended, and when the first frail blossoms of 
spring were retiring before the expanding beauties 
of later blooming flowers the trio, bidding their 
kind host and hostess a reluctant farewell, started 
on their homeward journey. Genevieve promised to 
spend a portion of every winter in New York. They 
sojourned for a brief season in the City of Magnifi- 
cent Distances and were chaperoned by Victor to 
the Capitol, the Smithsonian Institute, and other 
places of note, not omitting the convent at George- 
town, whose matin and vesper bells were full of 
strange, wild music to the ears of the romantic and 
poetical Genevieve. 


CHAPTER XXI 


GLIMPSES 


Alas, for my weary and care-haunted bosom ! 

The spells of the springtime arouse it no more; 

The song in the wildwood, the sheen in the blossom, 

The fresh swelling fountain — their magic is o’er! 

When I list to the stream, when I look to the flowers, 

They tell of the past, with so mournful a tone, 

That I call up the throngs of my long vanished hours 
And sigh that the transports are over and gone. 

— Willis Gaylord Clark. 

Sin hath broke the world’s sweet peace — unstrung 
Th’ harmonious chords to which the angels sung. 

— Dana's “Buccaneer.” 

In the sombre library at Bertram manor sat its 
dark-browed master, his gloomy eyes scanning Clio’s 
page; but the urn of his memory was filled with 
thoughts of the fair young wife who had fled from 
his home, his love, and his protection, in obedience to 
a severe, an unrelenting, conscience. Mechanically 
he turned the leaves of his book, but there was no 
fascination there; the words seemed meaningless and 
confused. The curtains were drawn aside, revealing 
the outer world robed in her lovely spring attire, 
but to the lonely man within all earth was clad in 
funereal robes. The sun still shone as it had done 

273 


274 


GENEVIEVE 


when Genevieve was there, but to him its light was 
darkness. Such a love as his comes to man only 
once in a lifetime. If it be disappointed, then is its 
blight everlasting. Ah, love, love, thou art second 
to death only in thy overwhelming power ! 

Mrs. Bertram was as usual superintending her 
domestic affairs, and, although her heart was weary, 
her hands were ever busy, and the machinery of 
the household ran on as smoothly as ever. 

Far away adown the blue Catawba, in a tiny, 
dilapidated cabin, stood the Indian maid at her 
spinning-wheel. She had learned the arts of civiliza- 
tion, and by practicing them was enabled to beguile 
many an otherwise tedious hour*. Her bright, black 
eyes were shining with an undimmed lustre and 
glittering tear-drops trembled on her dusky lashes. 
As she ran up and down the wheel, drawing out the 
long, slender thread, her thoughts alternated be- 
tween the pale-faced maiden, whom she feared she 
was never again destined to behold, and the lover 
sleeping his dreamless sleep in the rockbound sepul- 
chre on the river’s edge. 

At the door of the hut, with closed eyes, sat the 
old Indian, — Wakonda, — smoking his pipe, the 
smoke curling up in wreaths and resting fantastically 
above his head. Ever and anon he opened his eyes 
and turned them on the Sprite, but no words were 
exchanged between them, for both were occupied 
with their own meditations. 

A rude cage was suspended just without the door 
and in it skipped a playful squirrel, while another, 
swung from a low tree a few paces distant, held a 
gleeful mocking-bird, — the sweet-voiced Philomel of 


GLIMPSES 


275 


the South. Just before the fire a large gray cat was 
dozing; occasionally she stretched her limbs and 
purred softly. If at such times she did not succeed 
in attracting her mistress’ attention, pussy would 
arise, creep slowly to her feet, mew gently, and rub 
her sleek, velvet coat against the girl’s dress. 

In the shade of the tree, from which the bird cage 
was suspended, a giant, wolfish-looking dog lay 
chained. He was the guardian of the cabin, — fe- 
rocious to strangers, but docile as a lamb to the 
Sprite and ever as watchful as Cerberus. 

The interior of the cabin was prepossessing only 
on account of its perfect cleanliness. A couple of 
rude beds with but scanty covering, a pine table, 
three or four rickety chairs, and a few cracked 
dishes were the chief articles of furniture. A little 
patch of cultivated ground around supplied the pair 
with corn and vegetables, while a couple of pigs 
fattening in the pen were to furnish them with meat. 
In a stall at the rear of the cabin stood a patient ox, 
silently chewing his cud as he rested from his labors 
in the garden. Two goats were browsing in the 
woodland, and two kids were dancing around the 
door, — the former being the only milch animals that 
the Indians could afford. These soulless creatures 
were inexpressibly dear to the Sprite and her chief 
pleasure consisted in administering to their necessi- 
ties. At the base of the forest-crowned hill a little 
brook babbled noisily, and near it bubbled a tiny 
woodland spring, while daisies and violets clustered 
beneath the dead leaves; and the clear blue sky 
looked down over it all. 

Within the cabin the maiden at her wheel was 
murmuring: 


276 


GENEVIEVE 


“The winters come and go — the moon waxes and 
wanes — the earth dons and doffs her flowery garb — 
the birds sing — the water murmurs — the forest sighs 
— the clouds lower and again the sun shines, but 
my love is cold. Never more shall he awaken at 
the peep of dawn to chase the timid hare or hunt 
the frightened deer. Woe is me! My love is dead. 
He cometh not. I shall see him only when my breath 
forsakes me, when my body perishes to dust. Great 
Spirit, come now.” 

In the same grand forest, but far distant, a tent 
had been erected, and near it, busily engaged in 
preparing his evening meal, was the foiled dwarf, 
the fugitive from justice, hiding himself from those 
who sought to find him. He had entered the cave 
on the morning after our heroine’s liberation, hav- 
ing been detained away by a severe attack of 
rheumatism, and his horror was fearful when the 
disgusting odor of the putrid body saluted his nos- 
trils, which it did as soon as the stone was removed. 
He immediately felt convinced that both the maiden 
and the witch had died from starvation, and he went 
howling about the cavern collecting his effects for a 
speedy removal, not daring to examine the gloomy 
depths below. The cowardice in his nature tri- 
umphed over every other thought and feeling. Not 
for millions would he have descended into the abode 
of the dead, and a cold perspiration dripped from 
his forehead as he thought of the terrors hidden 
there. Bundling together all he could carry, he 
strode away into the forest and became the com- 
painion of such as dwelt there. 

In the city of Columbia a pretty lad, habited in a 


GLIMPSES 


277 


waiter’s garb, was helping plates at the table of one 
of the most fashionable hotels, his vivid black eyes 
ever resting upon the face of a fair and graceful 
lady who sat opposite, nonchalantly balancing her 
silver spoon upon the edge of her dainty, trans- 
parent china cup. The boy’s name was Stella 
Lorraine. She had lingered near Glenville, board- 
ing with a forester’s wife, until she could have an 
interview with the dwarf and hear of his success. 
Her desire at length being gratified, she took occa- 
sion to crop her hair closely, paint or pencil a 
moustache upon her upper lip, purloin the Sunday 
suit of the woodman’s son while the inmates of the 
cottage slept, and make her escape, hailing the stage 
just the other side of Monterosa. The unsuspecting 
driver, seeing her masculine attire, doubted not that 
she was a lad and bade her, 

“Jump in, and be in a hurry about it.” 

Perfectly satisfied that her rival was immured in 
a gloomy cave with no hope of escape, except by 
becoming the wife of the repulsive dwarf, Stella 
Lorraine had no fears but for her own safety. As 
soon, therefore, as she reached Columbia she ex- 
changed her purloined suit for a finer one, obtained 
from the tailor’s establishment, went boldly to a 
first-class hotel, applied for and received a situation 
as waiter, hoping thereby to escape notice until the 
search should be discontinued. No one suspected 
her identity. Her hair, which she had submitted to 
the barber immediately after her arrival, was shin- 
gled still closer to her head, and the deception of a 
moustache being still practiced, her appearance was 
completely changed. Imagine her consternation 
when three months and a half afterward she beheld 


278 


GENEVIEVE 


a gentleman and two ladies enter the dining-room 
and order late dinner, one of the latter being her 
hated rival. For a moment her agitation was power- 
ful, but controlling herself, she set about perform- 
ing her tasks, as if nothing unusual had occurred, 
her mind full of the wildest conjectures as to how 
our heroine had escaped. 

That night when the great hotel was wrapped in 
silence and its inmates in sleep a figure with a 
masked face and enveloped in a cloak emerged from 
the back door, and gliding around to the front, 
crept like a thief down the deserted street, pausing 
before an apothecary shop. After some delibera- 
tion, it entered. In a few moments it reappeared, 
retracing its steps, and another figure creeping 
stealthily behind hid in the shadows of the buildings. 

The next morning at the breakfast table Miss 
St. Julian asked for water. The obsequious waiter 
stepped forward and presented a brimming goblet, 
which was received, and a portion of its contents 
was drunk. On returning the glass, Genevieve 
raised her eyes and encountered those of the boy 
gleaming with a fiendish light; a mocking expression 
of triumph was on his face. At the same moment 
she became conscious that the face was familiar to 
her, and uttering a cry of horror, she sank upon 
the floor, a deathly pallor overspreading her lovely 
features. The glass was shivered to atoms; the 
waiter disappeared, and the room became the scene 
of wild confusion. People were panic stricken and 
they hurried to and fro, scarcely knowing what they 
were doing. Victor St. Julian raised his sister from 
the floor and besought her to tell him what had be- 
fallen her. 


GLIMPSES 279 

“I am poisoned,” she gasped. u The waiter was 
Stella Lorraine, — my enemy.” 

“Pursue the waiter!” shouted a powerful voice. 
“Capture him! kill him! he has poisoned the lady.” 

In a moment every man was trying to force an 
exit, — each one vociferating loudly and gesticulating 
fiercely as he jostled his unfortunate neighbor, who 
took revenge by crowding the next one and tramping 
upon his toes. 

When the confusion was at its height and restora- 
tives were being administered another voice cried: 

“Silence ! The lady is not poisoned. She has only 
taken a dose of sulphate of zinc. I am the apothe- 
cary who sold it. Last night a boy in disguise came 
to my shop and inquired for strychnine; from his 
wild actions I inferred that he meditated self-de- 
struction, and as a punishment I gave him an emetic. 
When he left I followed, creeping noiselessly behind. 
When I saw him enter here I returned home, but 
came back this morning, and pretending to want 
breakfast, stationed myself where I could observe 
all who came in and everything that transpired. I 
witnessed the waiter, whom I supposed to be about 
the height of the masked boy that purchased the 
drug, retire behind a curtain and drop the powder 
into a goblet of water. About that time a friend 
addressed a question to me, and turning to reply, I 
momentarily lost sight of the waiter. Arising and 
eagerly examining the room, I at last caught a 
glimpse of him just as he was receiving the goblet 
from the lady’s hand. It was the identical one into 
which he had dropped the powder. He must have 
selected it because it differed from others on the 
table. I was about to make known my presence 


28 o 


GENEVIEVE 


when the would-be poisoner dashed by me, and for- 
getting everything in my anxiety to arrest him, I ran 
out of the door in pursuit, but he was rapidly dis- 
appearing down the street, and remembering that 
I had a duty to perform here, I came back as hastily 
as possible.” 

Victor, greatly relieved, assisted his sister to her 
apartment, where she suffered for some moments 
with nausea, but soon recovered, the emetic acting 
speedily. 

In the meantime Stella Lorraine had sped down 
the street, which was unusually quiet, as nearly every- 
body was at breakfast, and striking her foot against 
an impediment, she had been hurled violently into 
an open cellar, where she lay for many moments 
stunned and bewildered and where, with the read- 
er’s permission, we will leave her. 


CHAPTER XXII 


ARTHUR TREVELYAN 

River! O river! thou roamest free, 

From the mountain height to the fresh blue sea! 
Free thyself, but with silver chain, 

Linking each charm of land and main. 

— Hoffman’s Poems. 


His dark, pensive eye 
Speaks the high soul, the thought sublime, 

That dwells on immortality. 

— Charlotte Elizabeth . 

Buena Vista, the beautifully embellished residence 
of Victor and Viola St. Julian, was situated on a 
triangular-shaped piece of land, bounded by three 
rivers, — Broad, Enoree, and Tiger. Its location 
was in one of the most picturesque spots on the green 
banks of the former. The mansion was large and 
irregular, but of the most graceful proportions. 
Both nature and art had been bountiful in their 
gifts. The exquisite beauty of the surroundings 
enraptured the trio who drove slowly up the broad 
elm-shaded avenue to the handsome iron-banistered 
portico, with its white stone steps and latticed ends, 
in and out of which graceful vines were creeping 
and twining. It was a scene of enchantment. Al- 
281 


282 


GENEVIEVE 


though it was early in April, yet flowers of every 
variety adorned the yard, evergreens of every de- 
scription were grouped hither and thither, adding 
greatly to the attractions of the place; canaries and 
mocking-birds warbled in cages, suspended from the 
leafy boughs; fountains played merrily, and gold 
and silver fish leaped joyously in marble basins. The 
house was situated on an eminence at the foot of 
which gurgled the silver river, fringed with willows 
and water-lilies. The slope was covered with fra- 
grant clover, and frames and summer houses, orna- 
mented with clinging vines, dotted the grounds from 
the summit of the hill to the bank of the river; at 
the bottom lay a small pleasure boat, secured by a 
chain to a large willow. The scene was as beautiful 
as a “poet’s dream of heaven.” The impulsive Viola 
glowed and rhapsodized in a manner that became 
her and enchanted her husband, whose anxiety to 
please her was manifested in everything that he did. 

When the carriage reached the steps the massive, 
carved double doors opened, and a neat, elderly 
colored woman came forward and courtesied to the 
new master and mistress and the young lady. Victor 
assisted Viola and Genevieve to alight; both shook 
hands cordially with the polite servant and were 
ushered by her into the grand front drawing-room, 
with its crimson carpet and curtains over which 
trailed vines of vivid blackness. A tiny but cheer- 
ful fire sparkled on the marble hearth, for the 
weather was still a little cool, and the polished and- 
irons shone with such brilliance that one might 
almost have seen his image reflected in them. A 
velvet rug was spread before the fender, and Janet, 
as we shall call her, hastened to place some cushioned 


ARTHUR TREVELYAN 


283 


rocking-chairs and dainty footstools near the fire 
for the strangers. A magnificent rosewood piano, in 
excellent tune, inlaid with mother of pearl and 
blessed with keys of the purest ivory, was placed 
against the wall, while opposite it hung a splendid 
full-length mirror, in a gilded frame and veiled with 
snowy muslin to prevent its shining surface from 
becoming dimmed by exposure. Sofas, chairs, 
marble-topped tables, and a tiny ornamental book- 
case were grouped artistically about the room. The 
ceiling overhead was fancifully decorated, and the 
brazen cornices above the large windows glittered 
in the April sunlight. The mantel was adorned 
with porcelain and crystal vases, holding a profusion 
of the loveliest and most fragrant flowers, the dew- 
drops still trembling upon their delicate petals. 

Viola tossed aside her hat and veil, exclaiming 
as she critically surveyed the apartment: 

“Is this really my own delightful home and am I 
to live here forever with my beloved husband and 
my dear Genevieve? My glad heart thrills with its 
new happiness. I shall indeed be a royal queen, and 
I trust God will enable me to wield my sceptre 
wisely, — to exercise my authority as becomes a just 
sovereign, — to dispense peace and comfort to my 
household, — to be prudent and economical; in brief, 
to be the very impersonation of thrift and industry.” 

Victor smiled approvingly, and taking his wife’s 
hand and that of his sister, clasped them in his own 
as he replied: 

“Our heavenly Father grant that my darlings may 
ever find peace and pleasure beneath this roof, — that 
the trail of the serpent may never rest over the 
flower-gemmed pathway of their future life. My 


284 


GENEVIEVE 


whole being is pervaded with a strange new joy. 
Although my life has been blessed above my deserts, 
yet it is a real relief, an unfeigned delight, to know 
that I have a home of my own.” 

“And,” declared Genevieve, earnestly, “my heart 
beats in unison with yours, my dear brother and 
sister. I too am rejoiced to be here, and I shall 
endeavor to forget my sorrows in your companion- 
ship and that of the trees, the birds, and the flowers.” 

The party then proceeded to inspect the remain- 
ing rooms on the lower floor, all of which were 
elaborately furnished and gave the greatest satis- 
faction. After their elegancies and conveniences had 
been sufficiently commended Viola ran up the broad, 
carpeted staircase, exclaiming: 

“Would that I had skilful fingers like the dames 
of the olden time. I would weave the richest tapes- 
try to adorn these walls and spend my time in fash- 
ioning beauties and decorations to enchant the eye 
of every amateur and connoisseur who might chance 
to visit here.” 

There were several munificently furnished cham- 
bers on the second floor, each supplied with a dress- 
ing and bathing room. Viola preferred that 
Genevieve should first make her selection, but the 
latter hesitated and evinced a reluctance, fearing 
that her choice might fall upon the one to which 
Viola had given her preference. Finally it was 
agreed that our heroine should occupy a spacious, 
airy chamber, opening upon a broad balcony and 
lighted by four large windows. The floor was 
covered by a carpet of soft, gray material, sprinkled 
with moss rosebuds and green leaves. The curtains 
were of snowy embroidered muslin; the bedstead, 


ARTHUR TREVELYAN 


285 


the bureau, the washstand, the wardrobe, the dress- 
ing-table, and the chairs were of the finest mahogany. 
Viola’s apartment was similar in every respect, with 
the exception of the carpet, which was also of the 
same silvery hue, but variegated with clusters of 
fruit and bouquets of flowers. 

While they were expatiating upon the perfect love- 
liness of everything they beheld dinner was an- 
nounced, and the trio descended to the dining-room 
where they found the table groaning under all the 
luxuries of the season. Genevieve’s eyes wandered 
ever and anon admiringly around the room, which 
was papered with representations of Eastern scenery. 
The pictures were faithfully delineated, and the 
maiden felt that it would be a source of much pleas- 
ure to examine those of Jerusalem, the “City of the 
Prophets” ; Bethlehem, the birthplace of the Saviour; 
Nazareth, His residence; Babylon with its hanging 
gardens; Baalbec, the “City of the Sun”; and 
Nineveh, together with many others, — such as 
Mount Lebanon, famed for its cedars; the Mount 
of Olives, for the sermon preached by Jesus; Mount 
Tabor, for His transfiguration; the Mount of 
Ararat, where the ark rested; Mount Horeb, noted 
as the place where Moses struck the rock and a 
fountain of living water gushed forth to gladden 
the Israelites, who thirsted and murmured. There 
too were pictures of the Valley of Shiraz, 
celebrated in Eastern poetry; the Vale of Cash- 
mere, called the Paradise of India; hordes of 
fierce Mamelukes and Bedouin Arabs, attacking 
caravans; camels, kneeling to receive their burdens; 
the desert waste, with its occasional oasis, where 
man and beast alike obtained refreshment. But the 


286 


GENEVIEVE 


most beautiful scene of all was Damascus, the “Eye 
of the East,” the “Pearl of the Orient,” the 
“Diamond of the Desert,” the “Perennial City.” 

The afternoon was devoted to an examination of 
the grounds, which were skillfully and tastefully 
arranged, a gardener being employed solely to take 
charge of the vegetables, fruits, and flowers. 

Towards the close of the month, after the party 
had become thoroughly domiciled in their new home, 
on a bright afternoon Genevieve strayed down the 
shade embowered avenue to the double gates, and 
passing through them, emerged into the open high- 
way which ran along by the river’s edge. The road 
was white and well sanded, and the air was freighted 
with the perfume of Cherokee roses, wild honey- 
suckles, and yellow jessamines, which clambered up 
and wreathed around the painted plank fence on the 
further side. Our heroine found a mossy bank, and 
seating herself, gazed with many emotions upon the 
flashing waves. As she mused she murmured: 

“Oh, the memory bells, how they ring, how they 
ring! Sometimes softly and sweetly, as if calling 
the worshippers of God to His holy temple; some- 
times weirdly and plaintively, like the notes of the 
whispering winds; sometimes loudly and joyfully, 
as if pealing for a merry bridal; sometimes blithely, 
as the warbling of birds at morn, or sadly, as they 
chant their vesper hymns; sometimes strangely and 
grandly, like the monastery’s mellow chime, and 
again slowly and solemnly, as if sounding the knell 
of a departed spirit. Years of my childhood, gone 
forever, never to be recalled, buried in the tomb of 
the past, how inexpressibly dear ye were to me; how 
the recollection of your joys and sorrows brings 


ARTHUR TREVELYAN 


287 


tears of love and sadness to my eyes and causes my 
heart to throb almost to bursting. The angel of 
memory has stirred the depths of my spirit and 
awakened haunting visions of those halcyon days 
when my father smiled upon me and my mother 
caressed me; when the sun beamed with such un- 
clouded splendor; when the deep cerulean hue of my 
life’s sky remained ever the same; when no rolling 
thunder-clouds nor lurid lightning-flashes appalled 
my soul and overshadowed my heart. All was tran- 
quil then, and I dreamed not of the fierce waves of 
sorrow, the keen blasts of adversity. Earth was 
to me a smiling, blooming Paradise ; men and 
women, angels of goodness and purity. I was a 
guileless, unsuspecting child, joyous and free as the 
wild bird of the forest, or the bright gazelle of the 
mountain. Of life’s stern realities I did not even 
dream, the future was vague and undefined. I 
lived and gloried in the present. My lot is still a 
blessed one. The tender, watchful eyes of my noble 
brother and his wife permit no shadow to darken 
my brow; their gentle, loving care would fain ban- 
ish all sorrow from my heart, but sometimes, when 
alone, I yearn for my childhood again, for my 
father’s loving glance, my mother’s fond embrace, 
even as the war-worn veteran, resting from his toils 
on the blood-washed field of Mars, surrounded by 
the comforts of home, enlivened by the presence of 
wife and children, longs to hear once more the neigh- 
ing of his battle steed and the cannon’s deafening 
roar. Ring on, ye blessed memory bells ! I love 
your mellow chime. Ring on, and bear my spirit 
back to those sweet days and let me dream I am 
again a child, lisping my evening prayer at my 


288 


GENEVIEVE 


sainted mother’s knee, or wandering in the rosy 
morning, hand in hand with my father, through the 
gray and ruined cloister, or bounding from his side 
to pluck the white roses that blossomed in the con- 
vent yard, clapping my hands in childish glee when 
a gust of wind would sweep over the parent bush 
and shower the delicate petals upon the grassy 
ground.” 

The waves sparkled in the golden rays of the 
sinking luminary; a holy calm pervaded all nature, 
and the soliloquizing girl, with her ringleted head, — 
golden in the sunlight, brown in the shadows, — in- 
clined slightly so that one damask cheek rested in 
the pink palm of her hand, looked very beautiful to 
the tall, elegant young man who came slowly down 
the road, almost hushing his breath, lest he might 
disturb the graceful Nymph, whom he half expected 
to see plunge into the water and seek the companion- 
ship of other Naiades hidden there. As he ap- 
proached nearer and yet nearer the maiden crested 
her head and turned her luminous eyes full upon 
him. There was so much of wondrous power and 
sweetness in the glance that the young man was 
dazzled, and his heart throbbed violently as he lifted 
his hat and bowed low. 

“Is Mr. St. Julian at home?” he inquired courte- 
ously, his high breeding evident in every look and 
gesture. 

“He was some time ago, sir,” responded the 
white-robed maiden. 

“I came hither to call upon him and his family, 
and, if I mistake not, you constitute a portion of 
the latter. Permit me to introduce myself to you as 
Arthur Trevelyan, formerly the ward of Mr. 


ARTHUR TREVELYAN 289 

Vernon, the Methodist minister, with whom Mr. St. 
Julian has some acquaintance.” 

Genevieve arose and gracefully acknowledged the 
introduction, informing him that she was Miss St. 
Julian and would bear him company to the mansion. 
They walked together up the broad avenue, dis- 
cussing the charming scenery around them, the 
weather and other topics, each well pleased with the 
companionship which promised to become friendly. 
They were met at the door by Victor, who con- 
ducted Mr. Trevelyan into the drawing-room, where 
the pair were soon engaged in an animated conversa- 
tion. Genevieve ran upstairs to smooth her hair 
and freshen her attire, then hastened down in search 
of Viola, whose jingling keys revealed her where- 
abouts. Genevieve informed Viola that they were 
to have company for tea and helped her in making a 
few preparations; then the sisters entered the pres- 
ence of their guest and the ceremony of introduction 
was performed between him and the fair hostess. 

After supper Genevieve, on being solicited, took 
her seat at the piano and played for Mr. Trevelyan, 
who was passionately fond of music. The harmoni- 
ous blending of beauty and grace in her person, of 
intellect and refinement in her mind, of cheerfulness 
and amiability in her disposition, together with her 
winning smiles and entertaining conversation com- 
pletely captivated the young minister, for such he 
was; and ere the pleasant evening was over the un- 
suspecting maiden had made a conquest, had won a 
true heart whose love was destined to be un- 
fortunate. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


ROSA VERNON 

Pale golden hair, 

Waving as the billowy sea, 

Wreathing like the ivy free 
Her brow so fair. 

Home is the sphere of harmony and peace, 

The spot where angels find a resting place, 

When bearing blessings they descend to earth. 

— Mrs. Hale's Poems. 

A few days later Genevieve, looking from her 
balcony, beheld a small, fairy-like creature, clad in a 
blue riding dress and mounted on a milk-white pony, 
with graceful, flowing mane, ride up the avenue and 
alight at the door, where she consigned her horse 
to the care of the sable boy groom, who was in at- 
tendance upon her. Soon a card was brought up and 
our heroine read the name of the pretty horse- 
woman, which proved to be not Diana but Rosa 
Vernon, the daughter of the pastor. The call was 
a very agreeable one; and both Viola and Genevieve 
were charmed by the artless sweetness of the fair 
little sunny-haired girl, with her violet eyes, snowy 
complexion, and flute-like voice. But our heroine 
did not fail to observe that the visitor regarded her 

290 

\ 


ROSA VERNON 


291 


with a strange, wistful gaze, which was incompre- 
hensible to her. Every time she raised her head she 
found those shining orbs resting upon herself, but 
they were always instantly averted, while a rosy 
cloud would overspread the pure oval face. 

Miss Vernon was highly accomplished, though 
only a rustic maid. The delicate chirography upon 
the card was perfect in every letter. Her conversa- 
tion was interesting; her manner, such as proved that 
she was accustomed to the very best society. 

On taking leave she invited the family to the par- 
sonage, which was about half-way between Buena 
Vista and the little village of Elmdale, two miles 
distant, where the church, whose spire could be seen 
glittering in the sunshine, was situated. The young 
lady then rode briskly away, followed by her groom. 
Ere she had proceeded far, she encountered her girl- 
hood’s companion, Arthur Trevelyan, who had 
walked in the direction of Buena Vista, but now 
turned and retraced his steps to the parsonage, his 
fine eyes lighting with enthusiasm as he eagerly in- 
quired: 

“Did you see Miss St. Julian, Rosa; and is she 
not the loveliest of women?” 

A sombre look came into the violet eyes ; the little 
mouth quivered; an arrow had pierced the loving 
heart, but the little maiden answered bravely : 

“Yes, she is very beautiful, Arthur.” 

The young man observed the alteration in her 
manner, which had been as joyous as a bird’s when 
she first saw him, and somehow his heart reproached 
him. He advanced a little nearer to her side, laid 
his hand upon the bridle-rein, and said: 

“What makes my little sister look so sad? Is she 


292 


GENEVIEVE 


not pleased with her new companions? Can she 
not brighten up and tell me of them?” 

“Oh, yes,” replied Rosa, “I was charmed with 
everybody and everything at Buena Vista. It is a 
lovely place and well deserves its name. Mrs. St. 
Julian is very sociable and winning. Miss St. Julian 
is somewhat reserved but a very goddess of beauty, 
as you told me she was. Mr. St. Julian was absent 
from home, but his wife was expecting his return 
this evening. I gave them an invitation to visit 
Dovecote, and we must exert ourselves to be hospit- 
able and entertaining.” 

Arthur smiled. 

“Your dear father and Aunt Elope are ever that,” 
he said kindly. “They are good and noble; no one 
could visit Dovecote without wishing to come back 
again. For my part, I consider it a very little Eden, 
and the associations that endear it to me can never 
be forgotten, though I may hereafter roam upon the 
coral strands and beneath the burning suns of India, 
beside the sunny fountains of Africa, or upon the 
snow-clad mountains of frozen Greenland.” 

Rosa trembled, and putting out her hand, clasped 
the one that lay upon the bridle-rein. 

“Don’t talk so, Arthur dear,” she besought. “You 
must never leave us. My father could not spare you 
in his old age. Aunt Hope loves you as an own son, 
and I, — I, — oh, Arthur, I would miss you so much!” 

He took her little hand and kissed it; then he sud- 
denly dropped it, fearing that he had committed a 
wrong in thus encouraging the love which Rosa 
strove to conceal, but which was evident to him. 

“My mission may lie in some distant clime,” he 
said in answer to her appeal. “It grieves me to 


ROSA VERNON 


293 


think of those barbarians groping in darkness, with- 
: out even the faintest glimmers of gospel light. If 
T could be the instrument in diffusing the glories and 
blessings of Christianity, even among a small portion 
of them, I would cheerfully sacrifice my desire to 
remain at home among my friends.’ ’ 

“But your health would be ruined. \ ou could not 
live in the sultry climate of Southern Asia, nor 
1 among the snows of the extreme North, nor in 
Africa.” 

I “I have a powerful constitution, and God does 
not impose upon man a burden greater than he can 
bear. But if my health should be impaired by ex- 
posure, — if my life must be rendered up to promote 
His cause, — God grant that I may die with a clear 
conscience, at my post, battling bravely for the right, 
struggling to do my duty.” 

Tears gathered in Rosa’s eyes, but she brushed 
them away, and said in a faltering voice : 

“Arthur, you have not considered. She — she 
would not leave her beautiful home, her brother 
and sister, to journey in a foreign land as a mission- 
ary’s wife.” It was the first time that Rosa had ever 
seemed to notice that the young man was smitten by 
the surpassing beauty of Genevieve St. Julian, and 
he looked up inquiringly. A faint smile hovered 
about the girl’s mouth, and she continued: 

“I have not been deceived. You have thought of 
Miss St. Julian every moment since your visit to 
Buena Vista. You love her, Arthur. You cannot 
dissemble.” 

The young minister bowed his head and a strong 
emotion swept over his soul. He did indeed love 
the graceful Peri, but he had scarcely acknowledged 


294 


GENEVIEVE 


it even in his dreams. Rosa’s words had opened his 
eyes. Others perhaps had discovered the existence 
of his passion, which it seemed he could not conceal. 
He had spoken of Genevieve admiringly to Rosa, 
and those jealous orbs of hers had read his secret, — 
the secret of a first, sudden, and powerful affection. 
After a pause he replied truthfully: 

“I do love her, Rosa. My passion sprang into 
life ere I had addressed one word to her, and 
strengthened every time my eyes rested upon her 
face. She is like some distant star, gladdening all 
with her radiant beauty, bestowing her smiles upon 
everyone, but suffering none to approach her. I 
scarcely dare hope that she will ever regard me ex- 
cept in the light of a mere acquaintance, and oh, 
Rosa, if she should deign to look kindly upon me, 
I fear my love for her would intervene between me 
and my God. I might be tempted to abandon the 
idea of endeavoring to spread the gospel rays 
throughout the blind and ignorant heathen nations. 
Her dear life would be too precious to risk upon 
the storm-swept ocean or beneath a burning sun on 
a foreign 8011.” 

The look of pain that shot across the pale face 
of the girl was like an arrow to the young man’s 
heart. 

In his enthusiasm he had wounded that 
gentle spirit, and he hastily endeavored to make 
reparation by changing the subject and striving to 
banish the shadows that brooded in those gloomy 
eyes. His efforts did not meet with success, and 
when Rosa alighted at the gate of Dovecote there 
was something strangely solemn and touching in 
her countenance. Arthur yearned to take her in 


ROSA VERNON 295 

his arms and comfort her with all a brother’s fond- 
ness, but he desisted. 

The silver-haired minister, with his placid brow 
and clear, undimmed eye, met them at the door, 
and smiling, kissed his daughter, the darling of his 
old age. 

“How have you enjoyed yourself, my love?” he 
anxiously inquired, noticing her sadness. 

“I have spent quite a pleasant afternoon, I thank 
you, papa,” she tried to answer cheerfully, but there 
was a key out of tune in her voice, which seemed to 
belie her words, and the good man did not fail to 
observe it. 

“Your aunt is in the dining-room; she will be 
glad to have you assist her with the strawberries. I 
have just been gathering some for tea,” said the old 
man. 

Rosa hurried in, eager to escape from her father’s 
penetrating glance. 

After a week had elapsed the St. Julian carriage 
with its silver mountings and velvet linings, drawn 
by horses richly caparisoned and of the hue of mid- 
night, was driven to the parsonage gate, and Victor, 
Viola, and Genevieve were met and invited to enter 
by Rosa, who was neatly attired in a blue gingham 
dress and white apron, with frills at the throat and 
wrists. 

When they were comfortably seated in the cosy 
little parlor with its immaculate floor and windows 
curtained by shades, upon which charming land- 
scapes were painted, Genevieve remarked: 

“This is the very perfection of a rural home, — 
what do you call it, Miss Vernon?” 

Arthur Trevelyan, passing by the open window at 


GENEVIEVE 


296 

that moment, looked in and not only heard the sweet 
voice but saw the moonlight smile that accompanied 
the words. He said to himself, 

“She has 


“ ‘A voice so clear, 

Like the tinkling of vesper bells 
Coming soft through mossy dells, 

Gladdening the ear. 

“ A. smile most sweet. 

Beaming like the sun’s bright ray 
Stealing through some cloister gray, 

Has Marguerite.’ ” 

The parsonage, or the Dovecote as it was most 
frequently called, was a long, low building of dark 
red brick, with green blinds and four tall overarched 
chimneys that presented the appearance of sentinels 
upon duty. It was embowered in a grove of grace- 
ful, feathery wateroaks, the most beautiful of all 
trees, and in front was a grassy lawn, upon which 
Rosa in her infancy had often sported; for Mr. 
Vernon was a local preacher, and this had ever been 
his home. The house consisted of two front rooms 
and two in the rear, with a broad passage running 
from east to west. The building faced east. There 
were two rooms upstairs, — the second story being 
only a half one. The apartment into which the 
guests had been ushered was the principal one, or 
at least the best furnished, and everything was 
scrupulously neat and in a good state of preserva- 
tion. 

Mr. Vernon and Miss Hope, of whom we will 
speak more hereafter, soon engaged Mr. St. Julian 
and his wife in a discourse upon pleasant themes, 


ROSA VERNON 


297 


while Rosa invited Genevieve to walk out in the 
yard, where the latter viewed with much interest the 
Shanghais, Brahmas, Cochin Chinas, Bantams, 
muffled-jaws, top-knots, and other varieties of chick- 
ens. There, too, were Muscovy and Puddle ducks; 
white, yellow, and gray turkeys ; geese, guineas, and 
a tremendous peafowl with the “step of a thief, the 
voice of a friend, and the garb of an angel.” 

Rosa had some pet bluebirds in one wire cage and 
a saucy parrot in another; a gigantic full-blooded 
Newfoundland dog and a Maltese cat; a little lamb 
with fleece as white as swans’ down, and, funniest of 
all, a mischievous raccoon, chained to a tree. 

After a while Arthur joined them, and they visited 
the well with its “old oaken, iron-bound, moss-cov- 
ered bucket” and large dripping white stone, upon 
which the latter always sat. Near it, in the old oak’s 
shade, was the ancient dairy covered with clinging 
moss and lichens and containing a shining array of 
milk pans. 

Their walk was extended to the garden, in which 
was an ample supply of vegetables; to the orchard, 
now dressed in a garb of green, and to the little vine- 
yard, where Scuppernong, Clinton, Isabella, and 
English grapevines were lovingly entwined and 
formed a cool, refreshing arbor. If Genevieve was 
enchanting at first sight, she was simply heavenly 
now in Arthur Trevelyan’s eyes. His love increased 
tenfold, and Rosa’s heart ached with its hopeless- 
ness. 

Viola was much pleased with the old minister and 
his amiable sister and housekeeper. Miss Hope 
Vernon was a calm, quiet old maid with many traces 
of former beauty; a few were left despite the rav- 


GENEVIEVE 


298 

ages of sorrow. She would have her guests remain 
to tea, and invited Viola into the kitchen, with its 
polished cooking stove and white sanded floor, upon 
which no envious drops of gravy ever fell. The 
stove was nicely heated and in readiness to prepare 
the evening meal. Miss Hope tied on a long apron 
and went to work with a will; kneading dough and 
making it out into biscuits; grinding coffee; broiling 
thin, dainty pieces of ham; slicing and toasting light 
bread, and stirring batter for muffins. Soon Rosa 
came in and spread the cloth, placing upon it the 
nice, clean dishes; some home-made, wine-red cherry 
preserves; apple jelly; golden butter; cream; sugar; 
frosted fruit cake, and raspberries. 

In the meantime Arthur and Genevieve had joined 
Mr. Vernon and Victor in the parlor, and the 
maiden was striving to render herself agreeable to 
the venerable minister. After supper the carriage 
was ordered, and Mr. and Mrs. St. Julian entered. 
Genevieve walked with Arthur and Rosa, who ac- 
companied them as far as the old rustic bridge with 
its massive rock piers. It spanned the pretty, play- 
ful brook, called Silver Creek, a tributary of Broad 
River, lying between Dovecote and Buena Vista. 
Arthur and his adopted sister paused to bid fare- 
well to Genevieve on the margin of the stream, and 
while the young man was bowing in a loverlike man- 
ner over the fair hand of the maiden a gentleman 
rode slowly by on horseback, unrecognizable in the 
dim twilight. His hat was drawn over his brows, 
but his eagle glance rested upon the pair. 

Genevieve’s heart thrilled for a moment. There 
was something in the stranger’s erect figure and 
haughty bearing that reminded her of Mr. Bertram, 


ROSA VERNON 


299 


but she banished the thought as an idle one, and 
summoning gay words to her lips, spoke the custom- 
ary adieus. 

The carriage had paused near the bridge, and 
Victor and Viola, leaning out, bade the young man 
and the maiden good night, pronouncing their 
names. Thus it was that the stranger riding by 
heard that of the young man, whom he henceforth 
regarded as a rival. Mr. Bertram was naturally 
inclined to be jealous and the sight of Arthur 
Trevelyan holding the hand that by right belonged 
to him was almost more than he could bear. 

The ride home through the gloaming was a most 
delightful one. Their road lay partly among the 
lofty pines, and the winds sighing mournfully 
through their dark, green foliage came to the oc- 
cupants of the carriage ladened with a fragrant, 
resinous odor, while the plaintive notes of a distant 
whippoorwill made melancholy music. 

When the carriage emerged into the open country 
and bowled along the bank of the river Genevieve 
looked from the window and beheld the stranger 
riding slowly ahead, but when a moment later they 
reached Buena Vista he was nowhere to be seen. 

Janet met them at the door of the hall with a 
lighted candle and conducted them to the parlor. 
Supper was waiting, but Viola informed the woman 
that they had partaken of a repast at Mr. Vernon’s 
and kindly dismissed her. After prayers the family 
retired. 

All that night a horse stood concealed in a clump 
of bushes, impatiently pawing the earth and champ- 
ing his bit, while a man paced to and fro in the 
shadows, his dark, stern eyes fixed upon the silent 


3 °° 


GENEVIEVE 


mansion, now wrapped in repose, and his hands 
clasped as if in great mental anguish. 

I he stars vanished; the gray light of dawn crept 
up into the sky; the chanticleer uttered his shrill 
crow, and the stranger mounted his horse, riding 
away in the direction of Elmdale. But he turned 
ever and anon to look once more upon the stately 
building that held his treasure, — alas! his no longer. 


V; 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE MORNING BELLS 


The lark upon his skyward way, 

The robin on the hedgerow spray, 

The bee within the wild thyme’s bloom, 

The owl amid the cypress gloom, 

All sing in every varied tone, 

A matin to the Great Unknown. 

Above — below — one chorus swells 
Of God’s unnumbered Sabbath bells. 

— Eliza Cook. 

Will man, who goeth to the tomb, 

Forever there remain? 

Is death an everlasting sleep? 

Or, shall he live again? 

— The Reverend Charles Taylor 


On the afternoon of that day Genevieve walked 
in the direction of the woodland, wishing to collect 
some moss to place over the earth in her pots of 
cape jessamine, rose-geranium, oleanders, and hy- 
drangeas for the purpose of preventing the mois- 
ture from being evaporated. It was a lovely day 
and the feathered choristers were having a perfect 
jubilee. The maiden felt unusually depressed, and 
she hoped that the cool violet-scented air would re- 
fresh her and fan away all gloomy forebodings. As 
she passed near a small group of bushes a bneeze 

301 


302 


GENEVIEVE 


a little stronger than the rest caught up a small bit 
of white paper and wafted it fluttering to her feet. 
She stooped to pick it up and discovered it to be a 
note on business of some description, addressed to 
Vivian Bertram, Esq., Glenville, Fairfield Dist., 
S. C. 

u Ah, then,” she cried, trembling in every limb, 
“it was indeed Mr. Bertram who passed us at the 
bridge, who rode before us on our way home, and 
perhaps lingered concealed near this spot, dropping 
the note by accident.” 

She eagerly examined the ground and found not 
only prints of a horse’s feet but of a man’s, pacing 
to and fro. Prompted by an irresistible impulse, she 
knelt and kissed the soft, yielding earth where he 
had trod. 

“Alas,” she murmured, “he must have noticed 
Arthur Trevelyan’s loverlike attentions to me, and 
he is wretched. His proud, noble, jealous heart 
is tortured with the fear that I am encouraging 
another man, that I will forget my scruples, that I 
will insist upon a divorce and wed another. Oh, 
my husband (for I may whisper the dear name to 
myself, though I dare not speak it aloud), oh, my 
husband, how your unswerving devotion, your wild 
idolatry, wrings my heart. Would to God that no 
obstacle existed between us. I would fly to you on 
the wings of love, and kneeling at your feet, humbly 
implore pardon for all the suffering that you have 
experienced on my account. A lifetime of tenderest 
affection could never repay you for all these gloomy 
months which have seemed to me centuries of 
misery.” 


THE MORNING BELLS 


303 


Would that the solitary horseman, now miles 
distant on his homeward way, could have seen the 
kneeling girl kissing his footprints! At least half 
of his sorrows would have vanished. 

Both Genevieve and Viola corresponded regu- 
larly with Mrs. Bertram, and Viola never failed to 
send kind messages to her cousin from both her- 
self and Victor, but his name was never mentioned 
in our heroine’s letters. Mr. Bertram watched 
eagerly for the missives, thrilling with pleasure when 
he recognized Genevieve’s delicate Italian super- 
scription, then again sickening with hope deferred 
when he saw how careful she was to ignore his 
very existence. Mrs. Bertram had promised to pay 
Buena Vista a visit in the ensuing autumn, and the 
girls, loving her tenderly, looked forward eagerly 
to the appointed time. Both the lady and her son 
had seen an account of the affair that had occurred 
at the fashionable hotel in Columbia. A notice of 
it, together with a description of the poisoner, was 
published in all the South Carolina papers, and Mr. 
Bertram made himself very miserable about our 
heroine, vowing that he would pay occasional secret 
visits to the neighborhood in which she resided, to 
see that all was well. However, he wisely kept his 
own counsel. 

But to return to Buena Vista. Genevieve sat at 
her window one bright Sabbath morning, listening to 
the mellow chimes of the village church bells that 
floated softly to her ears on the wings of the flower- 
perfumed zephyrs. There was much poetry in her 
nature, and though not inspired, yet she was some- 
thing of an improvisatrice. As she looked out upon 


3o 4 GENEVIEVE 

the blue sky, the rosy earth, and the river glistening 
in the sun’s bright rays like a sheet of silver be- 
sprinkled with diamonds she slowly repeated, com- 
posing as she went: 

“How sweetly sound the morning bells 
Upon the pleasant summer air; 

How gayly through the fragrant dells 
Float their deep notes so rich and rare. 

“Oh, sunny South ! Oh, land of bloom ! 

When closed for aye my weary eyes 
On thy broad bosom be my tomb, 

'Neath thy enchanting, cloudless skies. 

“Around my grave let zephyrs play, 

Freighted with sweet perfume of June; 

O’er me let sunbeams dance by day ; 

At night, soft glimmers of the moon. 

“Near my lone home shall bluebirds sing, 

And joyous, warbling redbreasts build; 

Let those whose thoughts to me still cling 
Hear, and with peace their hearts be filled. 

“Bloom o’er my bed, thou sweet white rose, 

Emblem of spotless purity; 

Direct the thought that upward soars, 

And tell them there I’m like to thee. 

“And o’er me weeping-willow bend, 

Thy drooping boughs my requ’em sigh; 

When fervent looks to God they send 
Tell them that I no more shall die. 

“Shine on me, stars; dispel the gloom, 

Banish the shadows dark and dread 
That hang at night around my tomb, 

And make the timid fear the dead. 

“Flow gently by, thou silver stream, 

Murmur thy music soft and low; 

Pass, like some bright and fleeting dream 
Of other times, of long ago. 


THE MORNING BELLS 305 


“On Sabbath eve let children come, 

And wander ’round in gentle mood ; 

Let them forget the city’s hum, 

Their hearts be filled with intents good. 

“Oh, little footsteps, print the ground, 

And prattling voices, pierce the air; 

Linger awhile about the mound 
Tha<t holds the one to mem’ry dear. 

“Come, youths and maidens, to the spot, 

And breathe the vows of fondest love; 

Muse on of some enchanting cot, 

On hill, in dale, or fiow^er-gemmed grove. 

“Old men and matrons, crowd around; 

Leave for a while your busy cares ; 

Kneel with deep rev’rence on the ground; 

Trust Him Who died, forget your fears. 

“Sweet morning bells, ring out your chimes 
When I shall be an angel fair; 

In other lands, in other climes, 

There are no notes so sweet and clear.” 

When the young girl had finished weaving her 
simple wreath of poetry Viola came to the foot of 
the staircase and called: “Come, Genevieve, the 
carriage is ready.” 

It was their intention to attend the church at Elm- 
dale, where they expected to hear Mr. Vernon de- 
liver a sermon. Genevieve arose, donned her 
Neapolitan hat (trimmed in blonde lace, artificial 
flowers and blue ribbons), drew on her gloves, and 
went down to join her brother and sister. As they 
passed Mr. Vernon’s they beheld the old man sitting 
in his easy chair, and they supposed that a slight 
indisposition had prevented him from attending 
church. They also supposed that Mr. Trevelyan 
would fill his place in the pulpit. 


3°6 


GENEVIEVE 


The carriage was driven slowly through the nar- 
row, clean street, with its rows of white houses, to 
the remote end of the village, where the neat brick 
church was situated. The service was about to 
begin, and our party immediately entered and were 
conducted to a pew. Presently the young minister 
arose, looking nobler and handsomer than ever; his 
melancholy dark eyes rested a moment upon Gen- 
evieve’s face as if to gain new inspiration. He gave 
out in a clear, well-toned voice the lovely hymn com- 
mencing, “The morning light is breaking.” The 
choir sang in harmony, while the organ played a 
solemn accompaniment. Then followed a most 
touching and beautiful prayer, after which Mr. 
Trevelyan arose and announced his text, “If a man 
die, shall he live again?” and began his sermon: 

“From the present standpoint of the nineteenth 
century back to the hour when the Post-Adamite 
earth was arrayed in her primal beauty, philoso- 
phers, in all ages, of all nations, and of all grades of 
intellect, have been engaged in the praiseworthy 
attempt to elucidate the grand problem of man’s 
future destiny. The magi of ancient times and the 
scientific men of the present refined and intellectual 
epoch have bent their herculean energies to the in- 
vestigation of this stupendous subject, but alas, the 
lamps which science has hung in her ample halls 
shine but dimly on the dreary confines of the grave. 
Philosophy recoils from the undertaking, as if 
smitten with blindness and paralysis, and science, 
disrobed of her gorgeous pretensions and clothed 
in the simple habiliments of faith, takes refuge in 
Divine revelation. Human genius, with its specious 
schemes, its fanciful speculations, its adroitly con- 


THE MORNING BELLS 


307 


structed systems of religion, its Atheism, Deism, and 
Pantheism, tells us absolutely nothing of our origin 
nor of our future destiny. Syriac and Arabic manu- 
scripts, the hieroglyphic records on the crumbling 
walls of Egyptian temples, the exhumed treasures 
of Thebes and Palmyra, the classic lore of Greece 
and Rome, have revealed to eager mortals nothing 
of the nature and attributes of Deity, nothing upon 
which humanity can place its hopes or rest its aching 
heart. 

“Atheism is a horrible gulf without bottom and 
without shore, from which the mind of man shrinks 
with unutterable consternation; whilst Deism and 
Pantheism are Dead Sea apples, whose exterior is 
beautiful, but which, when pierced by truth’s 
Ithuriel spear, turn to bitter dust and ashes upon 
our lips. 

“More than eighteen hundred years ago a greater 
than ancient magian or modern philosopher ap- 
peared upon the theatre of human action. A mes- 
senger was sent from heaven to earth, and that 
messenger appeared in the person of Bethlehem’s 
lowly babe. 

“Jesus Christ alone of all others has solved the 
Gordian difficulty. He alone of all others has es- 
tablished the truth of man’s immortality and demon- 
strated the grand problem that if a man die, he shall 
live again. Without the light of Divine revela- 
tion we would be as blind men groping in Cim- 
merian gloom, springing from we know not where, 
— going to we know not whither. And without the 
example, the precepts, and the religion taught us by 
our blessed Lord men would be incarnate fiends, and 
the earth, a theatre of cursing, tears, and blood. 


3°8 


GENEVIEVE 


U I am no atheist; I shrink with instinctive loath- 
ing, with accumulated horror, from the dreadful 
abysm of annihilation. I believe there is divine es- 
sence in man’s composition, a nobler principle than 
mere matter, which is destined to survive the wreck 
and the ruin of dissolution, which shall 'rise Phoenix- 
like to superior beauty from the ashes of humanity; 
but it has seemed to me to be strange, — wondrous 
strange, — that from the voiceless shores of the un- 
seen land whither we are all tending no sign nor 
sound has e’er come back from human lips. From 
the creation to the present hour millions multiplied 
by millions of the vast human family have penetrated 
the dread arcana of the future; yet no voice of 
human wisdom breaks the fearful stillness, no light 
of philosophic ingenuity irradiates the gloom. 

“But taking a nobler and more elevated view of 
man’s immortal destiny; applying David’s and St. 
Paul’s telescopes of religious faith and Divine 
revelation to the mind’s eye and directing our 
anxious gaze away, — far away, — in the spiritual 
heavens we discover the luminous disc of the Star 
of Bethlehem dissipating with its effulgent beams the 
portentous clouds which gather over the termination 
of our mortality, and illuminating with celestial 
splendor the dreary midnight of the grave. 

“No discoverer of ancient or modern times, no 
Christopher Columbus, no Balboa, no Elisha Kent 
Kane, no Ferdinand De Soto, has yet appeared to 
write the geography or history of that terra 
incognita , — that weird and mysterious realm. No 
electrician has yet been able to lay a cable whose 
termini shall connect the shores of time with the 
shores of vast eternity.^ 


THE MORNING BELLS 


309 


“But, thanks be to God, there is a ladder by which 
men may, like Jacob of old, mount from earth to 
heaven. 

“This ladder is prayer. There is a principle 
by the exercise of which men may, like Moses feast- 
ing on the Grapes of Eshcol, enjoy a foretaste of 
the glories of the better land. This principle is 
charity in its greatest amplitude, — love to God and 
all mankind. There is a cable, along the thrilling 
wires of which messages of peace and pardon run 
from God to man, — a cable which neither howling 
storms nor thundering waves shall sunder. This 
cable is faith, sublime and Abrahamic faith in the 
precious promises of the Saviour and in the efficacy 
of His redeeming blood. 

“And in view of the signal triumph which Jesus 
Christ has achieved over death and the grave, in 
view of the glorious supernatural light which has 
been shed upon the profoundly obscure subject of 
our future destiny by His death, resurrection and 
ascension, why should not we, as a Christian people, 
rejoice? Earth’s victories are celebrated with feast- 
ing and revelry, — with pomp and circumstance, — 
with pealing bells and bugles’ blast and cannons’ 
roar; but such are obtained often through the de- 
moralization of the victors, and always through the 
woe and the wailing of the vanquished. Austerlitz 
and Trafalgar, Wagram and Waterloo, are written 
in characters of fire and blood, but thy consecrated 
summit, Calvary, witnessed the outpouring of most 
precious blood, — blood which was shed for the heal- 
ing of the nation, — and to thy illustrious sufferer 
has been accorded a nobler apotheosis than that 
given to earth’s mightiest heroes. Oh, the Bible! 


3 IQ 


GENEVIEVE 


the heaven-born Bible ! God’s most precious gift to 
a crime-cursed world. Who can estimate its value to 
the suffering sons and daughters of humanity? With- 
out its revealed glories, its stupendous truths, the 
present would be the blackness of darkness, the 
future, the hopelessness of despair. The Bible alone 
of all other books presents a platform upon which 
men may stand, — steadfast as the Rock of Ages; 
immovable as the throne of God. 

“When the ocean of life becomes tempestuous; 
when angry clouds gather upon the darkened hori- 
zon, and naught is heard save the howling of the 
storm and the fierce detonation of the rolling thun- 
der; when fiery lightnings blaze across the dreadful 
gloom, and all seems lost, forever lost, the Bible, as 
the mariner’s compass indicates the pole, points to 
heaven, — the heaven of eternal rest. 

“The fury of the storm ceases, the billows subside 
and the warring elements sink into repose. When 
misfortunes o’ertake us and hope sickens and pales 
and well-nigh dies out within us the Bible chases 
away the murky clouds of gloom and despondency 
which settle upon our souls, infuses comfort into 
our broken hearts, and animates us with anticipa- 
tions of brighter days. Under its influence the sigh 
of despair gives place to the anthem of hope, and 
the frown of unhappiness vanishes before the radi- 
ant smile of joy and peace. 

“When disease, wan and ghastly, stretches us upon 
the bed of suffering; when the pulses fail and the 
breath comes short and fast and the eye grows dim 
and the death sweat gathers on the brow, oh, then 
it is that we most need the sublime consolations of 


THE MORNING BELLS 31 1 

religion and the supporting hand of our blessed 
Lord. 

“Fear not, pale sufferer, poor stricken one, shiver- 
ing on the banks of death’s cold stream; through 
the dark waters thou shalt not pass alone. Jesus 
Christ shall go with thee. He Who washed thee in 
His blood shall cling to thee still, with more than 
fraternal fondness, with more than parental love. 
His strong, sustaining arm shall be thrown around 
thee, so that the darkness shall not frighten thee, 
nor the billows overwhelm thee. His grace shall 
cheer thee and His glory shall give thee triumph. 

“Yes, Christian, humble searcher after truth, 
wayworn pilgrim on life’s desert shore, climb to 
the top of Pisgah’s hallowed mount and survey the 
glories of the Promised Land, — the vine-clad hills 
and sunny slopes and refreshing groves of dear, 
delightful Canaan, and in view of the sublime pros- 
pect rejoice as much as you please. Sing, shout, clap 
your hands for gladness, strike the harp, tune the 
lyre, raise the lofty pean, for I declare to you upon 
the authority of the august and immutable I Am that 
if a man die he stall live again, — live to bask for- 
ever in the unclouded sunshine of Jehovah’s pres- 
ence, — live to cull the amaranthine flowers of endless 
joy and ineffable love.” 

The minister ceased and sat down. Genevieve 
bowed her head upon her hands in prayer and re- 
mained thus until Rosa Vernon, the organist, had 
finished the prelude to “There is a Land of Pure 
Delight” and commenced the hymn. She then united 
her pure contralto voice with Rosa’s fine soprano 
and assisted in singing the beautiful stanzas. An- 


3 12 


GENEVIEVE 


other thrilling prayer was offered up, followed by 
the doxology, and finally by the benediction. 

After they had descended the church steps the 
young minister and Rosa joined our party, the lat- 
ter informing them that her father was. suffering 
from a headache and that her Aunt Hope had re- 
mained at home to bear him company. Arthur 
Trevelyan was in high favor with his congregation, 
and the enlightened and cultivated villagers crowded 
around with kindly greetings and expressions of sat- 
isfaction with his sermon. In fact, his elocution 
was most admirable and his gestures were graceful 
exceedingly. Genevieve made some new and pleasant 
acquaintances and promised to return some calls 
that had been paid her. She strayed with Arthur 
and Rosa through the graveyard and lingered to 
read the inscriptions upon the tombstones, or to in- 
quire the names of those who lay beneath grassy 
mounds, with only rude, unlettered boards at their 
heads. 

“I regret, Miss St. Julian,” said Mr. Trevelyan, 
“that you did not arrive earlier. We have quite an 
interesting Sunday-school and as one of our teachers 
is going away on a visit, to be absent some time, I 
thought it probable that we might induce you to fill 
the vacancy.” 

u Thank you,” replied Genevieve; “nothing would 
please me better than to have a class of bright little 
pupils.” 

Arrangements were then made for the ensuing 
Sabbath, and on their return to the carriage, Rosa 
invited them to dine at the Dovecote; but the in- 
vitation was kindly declined, and the party entered 


THE MORNING BELLS 313 

the carriage, the driver turning his horses’ heads 
in the direction of home. 

Arthur Trevelyan and Rosa Vernon followed in 
a light buggy. The former was so absorbed with 
his thoughts of our heroine that he scarcely ad- 
dressed a word to his sad little companion during 
the drive. 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE HOUSEHOLD ANGEL 


My sorrow is their gain, 

And I show not by a tear 
How my solitude and pain 
Have bought their comfort dear, 

For the storm which wrecked my life’s best hope has left me 
stranded here. 


— Chambers' Journal. 


This life is but a game of cards, 

Which mortals have to learn; 

Each shuffles, cuts, and deals the pack, 
And each a trump doth turn. 


The families at Buena Vista and the Dovecote 
became very intimate. Visits were constantly in- 
terchanged, and although Rosa loved Arthur and 
knew that he loved Genevieve, yet she could not dis- 
like her. The sweet simplicity of her manners, her 
unaffected modesty, her winning grace and beauty, 
broke down the barrier that jealousy had erected, 
and the two girls were continually together, both 
studiously avoiding the mention of Arthur’s name in 
their conversation. For Rosa was not acquainted 
with the state of Genevieve’s heart, and the latter 
had penetrated the secret that Rosa would fain have 
kept concealed. 


314 


THE HOUSEHOLD ANGEL 315 


But the suspense told upon the little girl at Dove- 
cote and she gradually grew thinner and paler until 
finally her anxieties culminated in a fever. Arthur 
Trevelyan often reproached himself for causing 
her unhappiness, and sometimes thought of leaving 
the parsonage, but he, too, was ignorant of the 
sentiments that Genevieve entertained toward him, 
though it was plain that she gave him no encourage- 
ment. He felt that he had abused Mr. Vernon’s 
kindness and confidence by stealing the affection of 
his guileless child when he had none to bestow in 
return. Like a true Christian, he prayed over the 
wrong he had committed and wept over it, but could 
not tear himself away from Genevieve until he had 
declared his love and received her reply. 

On the second day of Rosa’s illness Miss Hope 
sent a messenger to Buena Vista requesting our 
heroine to visit Dovecote, as the invalid had ex- 
pressed a wish to see her. When Genevieve reached 
the parsonage she found that Mr. Vernon and 
Arthur were absent from home, attending a camp- 
meeting. Miss Hope met her at the door, and 
ushered her into the room where Rosa was lying 
on her dainty little white-draped bedstead. Gene- 
vieve noticed with apprehension the vacant light in 
the girl’s eyes, and Miss Hope, perceiving the 
troubled expression that crept into her countenance, 
also became very uneasy and dispatched a messenger 
for the family physician. Rosa put out her hands 
as our heroine approached the bed and said wildly : 

“Genevieve, you are so beautiful; oh, so winsome 
and beautiful! Don’t let Arthur see you; he will 
fall down and worship you; he will forget poor Rosa 
who loves him so. Oh, Arthur, Arthur, where is the 


3i 6 


GENEVIEVE 


love you bore me in childhood? Then you were my 
champion in all my childish difficulties, assisting me 
with my lessons, building my playhouses and promis- 
ing, — oh, yes, promising, — that some day I should 
be your little wife.” 

Her voice gradually increased in loudness until 
it almost became a scream. She tossed her arms 
about, raised herself in bed, and cried passionately: 

“Arthur, come back to me; don’t forsake me for 
that proud, cold girl.” 

Then she fell back upon her pillow, almost ex- 
hausted. 

“She is delirious,” whispered Genevieve. 

“Yes,” replied Miss Hope, with tears in her 
eyes. 

Our heroine advanced and passed her cool, moist 
hand over the sufferer’s fever-flushed forehead. 

“Be calm, my dear Rosa,” she said earnestly. “I 
will not take Arthur away from you. I do not love 
him, and when he gives me an opportunity I will 
tell him so, and he will return to his old allegiance.” 

The invalid seemed to comprehend and she grew 
calmer, though she still talked at random until the 
physician arrived and administered a nerve-pacifier, 
at the same time recommending the free use of cold 
water in bathing her forehead. While our heroine 
gently mesmerized her she sank into a refreshing 
sleep, during which the crisis occurred, and she 
awoke convalescent. In the meantime Genevieve 
partly unfolded her history to Miss Hope, that 
the latter might comfort Rosa somewhat when she 
recovered. 

Genevieve, however, felt a delicacy as well as a 
hesitancy in doing so, for she knew that the girl’s 


THE HOUSEHOLD ANGEL 3*7 


pride would be in arms in a moment, if she should 
by accident learn of her delirious pleadings. 

Miss Hope’s fair, sweet face smiled benignly on 
the maiden and she drew her golden-brown head to 
her bosom, softly kissed the pure white brow as 
she murmured : 

u You too have known sorrow, my lovely child. 
You too have been disappointed in your heart’s 
sweetest affection, but there is still hope, for you are 
free and your lover is also, is he not? I he grave 
does not separate you. By and by you will become 
reconciled to each other and God will join you to- 
gether. Heaven knows I feel for my poor Arthur, 
my dear, noble boy, whom I love as an own son. 
I fear your rejection of his suit may overshadow his 
whole life, but it may be that he will think more 
kindly of yonder sweet and suffering girl and per- 
haps in the end all will be well.” 

“Tell me something of your history, good friend,” 
said Genevieve affectionately. “Perhaps it will aid 
me to bear my weary burden. There is no hope for 
me as you have imagined. An insurmountable ob- 
stacle exists between the man I love and my un- 
happy self.” 

“Ah, child, thus it was in my case. In my girl- 
hood’s sunny days I loved a youth, who in return 
gave me his heart’s richest treasures; but we had a 
quarrel, — a causeless one, as we afterward learned. 
Another girl, a proud, haughty creature, loved him 
also and told him falsehoods, thereby creating an 
estrangement between us. In a fit of passion and to 
take revenge upon me he married her, and oh, Gene- 
vieve, the anguish that I suffered was almost in- 
tolerable. They did not live happily together, for 


GENEVIEVE 


318 

she proved to be worse than a Xantippe, and the 
birth of their first child, a son, was followed by a 
divorce. Then he came back to me, but I could not 
marry a man with a living wife ” 

At this juncture Genevieve, who sat on a low foot- 
stood at the lady’s feet, buried her face in her hands 
and wept aloud. Miss Hope continued: 

“He did not live long, for his unhappiness under- 
mined his health, and with his dying breath he 
committed his baby boy to my own and my brother’s 
charge. His wife soon followed him to that other 
land and I went to live with my brother, who was 
many years my senior and comparatively an old man 
when he married his bright young wife. She sur- 
vived Rosa’s birth only a few days. Since then I 
have had the care of the two children and they are 
as precious to me as my own life.” 

“Thank you, dear friend, for your confidence,” 
said Genevieve, taking her hand and pressing it. 
“I feel braver and stronger to know that another 
besides myself has put happiness away from her 
in the fierce battle for right.” 

Miss Hope anxiously regarded the tear-stained 
face but would not press the maiden for further con- 
fidence; and Genevieve did not tell the story of her 
unhappy marriage. 

“How is it,” she asked, “that you always wear 
the semblance of cheerfulness? I never saw a 
shadow upon your brow, except as a reflection of 
another’s sorrows.” 

“I find much pleasure in administering to the 
welfare of those around me. My presence has be- 
come necessary to the happiness of the inmates of 
this cottage and not for worlds would I suffer a 


THE HOUSEHOLD ANGEL 319 

cloud to lower upon my face and thus dim the light 
of this home. Ah, my dear, they have trouble 
enough of their own.” 

Directly Rosa awoke and her mind was no longer 
wandering. She greeted our heroine affectionately 
and entreated her to remain during the night. Gene- 
vieve refused, however, declaring that her brother 
and Viola would be quite uneasy, as she had ex- 
pressed her intention of returning to Buena Vista. 
As she was about to take her leave Mr. Vernon and 
Arthur rode up and dismounted. The old man was 
much distressed to hear of his daughter’s illness, 
but thankful that she was improving. Arthur, after 
tenderly inquiring after Rosa’s health, replaced his 
hat on his dark, glossy locks and escorted Genevieve 
home, remaining for tea and returning to the par- 
sonage by moonlight. Both Victor and his wife 
were much pleased with the young man, and often 
thought that if Genevieve was unfettered they would 
willingly reward his devotion by bestowing her hand 
upon him. 

Mr. Vernon, when our heroine had departed, 
seated himself by the little French bedstead, while 
Miss Hope busied herself in making preparations 
for supper. 

“How delightful home is,” he said, taking Rosa’s 
hand, “after a warm and dusty ride; but I have 
much cause for rejoicing and little for complaint. 
Many persons united themselves with our branch of 
the church and some embraced religion.” 

“I am glad to learn of your success, Papa,” an- 
swered the girl. “It pleases me always to hear of 
men becoming reconciled to Him Who shed His 
precious blood for us, that if we believe on Him, 


320 


GENEVIEVE 


we may not be condemned, but have everlasting life. 
The consolations of religion are very precious to 
me.” 

About dusk one soft summer afternoon a neat, 
bright-looking mulatto girl, with a bundle of clothes 
on her arm, presented herself at the gate of Ber- 
tram manor and asked for admittance. After a con- 
siderable parley old Oscar permitted her to enter. 
She walked quietly along one of the broad semi- 
circular paths to the steps, ran lightly up them, and 
sounded the brazen knocker. Presently Clarinda 
came to the door, and seeing the strange visitor, 
started back in amazement; but the girl said in a 
lisping voice : 

“Pleath let me come in. I want to thee the mith- 
reth. I am only a poor thewing-girl that goeth about 
doing work for people.” 

The servant, satisfied with this assurance, con- 
ducted her into the dining-room, where Mrs. Ber- 
tram sat supervising the arrangement of the tea- 
table. 

She exhibited some surprise at the entrance 
of the mulatto, but made no remark until the girl 
explained her business and begged leave to remain 
and do some sewing for the lady. 

“But I know nothing in regard to your character,” 
replied Mrs. Bertram, hesitatingly. “You may be 
an impostor for aught I can tell.” 

“Oh, ma’am,” said the girl, “ath for that I can 
thow you my referentheth.” Whereupon she pro- 
duced a certificate, signed by several of the most 
prominent citizens of Charleston, with whose un- 
blemished names Mrs. Bertram was well acquainted. 


THE HOUSEHOLD ANGEL 321 

“You lived in Charleston then?” said the lady. 
“What is your name?” 

“Zoe Wren ith what I am called. Yeth, ma’am, 
I lived in Charlethton. My mother and I were 
free and did thewing for the ladieth until the died; 
then I came up the country, for my health wath bad; 
Thinth that time I have been traveling about thew- 
ing for firtht one and then another. Pleath, ma’am, 
let me thay here. I will be humble and obedient 
and keep my own plath.” 

Mrs. Bertram was not exactly pleased with the 
girl, though she looked perfectly clean and respect- 
able and was well attired. There was something 
objectionable in the squinting eyes, which were 
nearly always half closed. However, the lady de- 
cided to employ her for a short time, as she was in 
need of just such a person. She bade the girl take a 
seat on a low chair by the fireplace. The mulatto 
with one small shapely brown hand swept back the 
crimpled hair from her dusky forehead and peered 
anxiously around the room. 

Presently Mr. Bertram came in, having just re- 
turned from a ride to the Catawba cave, the locality 
of which he had discovered from Genevieve’s de- 
scription. She explained to him also the secret of 
the hidden spring; and having first mastered and re- 
moved the one in his own wall, of which the maiden 
had also informed him, he was the better enabled 
to find the other in the revolving stone at the mouth 
of the cavern. Mr. Bertram had often visited the 
place stealthily, with the hope of coming suddenly 
upon the dwarf, but so far he had always been un- 
successful. 

As he entered the dining-room he glanced casually 


322 


GENEVIEVE 


at the mute creature near the fireplace, but made no 
remark. Mrs. Bertram hastened to explain that she 
was a sewing girl whom she had employed, and the 
gentleman was perfectly satisfied, not even directing 
his gaze toward the motionless figure again, nor 
noticing that the half-closed eyes were devouring 
him so eagerly. 

Mr. Bertram seated himself at the table, supper 
now being ready, and in a few moments a colored 
boy came in with the mail-bag. Mrs. Bertram ran- 
sacked it for a letter and finally found one hidden 
among the newspapers, bearing the Elmdale post- 
mark. She hastily tore open the envelope and pe- 
rused its contents, while Mr, Bertram sat gloomily 
studying the flowers on his china cup. When she had 
finished he inquired with suppressed anxiety: 

“What is the news, mother?” 

“My letter is from Genevieve ” began the 

lady. 

At that moment the mulatto girl started so vio- 
lently that both glanced toward her. She apologized 
by saying : 

“I wath tho tired, ma’am, after my long, warm, 
duthty walk that I forgot mythelf and nodded.” 

Mrs. Bertram continued: 

“They are all quite well at Buena Vista, and 
Genevieve writes that she is having a pleasant time 
with her new friends.” 

“Doubtless,” replied Mr. Bertram bitterly, while 
the shadow deepened upon his haughty, handsome 
face as he remembered the scene near the Silver 
Creek bridge. 

Mrs. Bertram handed him the letter and as he re- 
ceived it he inquired: 


\ 


THE HOUSEHOLD ANGEL 


323 


“Have they discovered anything in connection 
with the affair at the hotel in Columbia?” 

“She does not mention it at all in her letter,” 
answered the lady. 

If the pair could have known how eagerly the 
dusky-browed girl in the chimney corner was drink- 
ing in their words neither would have felt so much 
at ease. 

After Mrs. Bertram had given the mulatto a gen- 
erous supper, of which the girl partook sparingly, 
she ordered a mattress to be thrown on the floor in 
her room, not caring to force the companionship of 
the newcomer upon her house servants. She sup- 
posed that the mulatto would feel a repugnance 10 
occupying a negro cabin and sharing old Clarinda’s 
bed, although the latter was very cleanly, notwith- 
standing her midnight hue. She remembered, too, 
that her own slaves were bitterly opposed to mulat- 
toes, and she feared that the girl might not fare 
so well among them. She thought too that the girl 
would object to staying with them. 

That night, when the unsuspecting lady was 
quietly slumbering on her bed, the wide-awake girl 
crept from her pallet, and searching Mrs. Bertram’s 
pockets, found the letter which her son had re- 
turned after perusing it. Hiding it in her bosom, 
she stole back to bed, and the next morning when 
Mrs. Bertram discovered her loss no one hunted 
for the missing epistle with such obliging eagerness 
as Zoe Wren, the mulatto. 

A fortnight passed and during that time the busy 
seamstress had made a half dozen fine plaited 
bosom linen shirts for Mr. Bertram, stitching them 
with such alacrity and exquisite neatness that not 


3 2 4 


GENEVIEVE 


a fault could be found, and Mrs. Bertram had en- 
gaged her to remain longer and do more sewing. 

Every look and tone and gesture of the lady’s 
and her son’s were carefully noted, and at night 
when the household was wrapped in repose the olive- 
tinted maiden, or whatever she was, crept noiselessly 
about as Marion Bertram had done before her, fre- 
quently entering Mr. Bertram’s room, and bending 
over him as he slept. Often she caught the sound 
of Genevieve’s name as it issued from the lips of 
the noble sleeper, who, slumbering or waking, never 
ceased to think of his absent bride. At such times 
the bright bold black eyes, no longer half-closed, 
would gleam with a strange malignancy, and the 
watcher would clench her fists and mutter horrible 
curses upon the innocent offender who slumbered un- 
easily on her downy bed at Buena Vista, or kept her 
lonely vigils by the open window, with no other 
companion than the starry sky above her. 

On one occasion Zoe Wren stood by Mr. Ber- 
tram, and hearing him murmur passionate assur- 
ances of his love for Genevieve she anathematized 
the latter so loudly that the slumberer started from 
his bed, completely awakened, and the girl, with a 
low cry, fled from the room, cursing her own folly. 

The next morning the mulatto stood before Mrs. 
Bertram with her arms meekly folded across her 
bosom and her head bowed in shame, humbly con- 
fessing that she had committed a great misdemeanor, 
acknowledging that she was both a somnambulist 
and a somniloquist, that she had entered Mr. Ber- 
tram’s apartment on the previous night and that she 
had awakened him from his slumbers by her foolish 
mutterings. Mrs. Bertram freely forgave the cul- 


THE HOUSEHOLD ANGEL 


325 


prit, whose contrition was so apparent; and when her 
son mentioned the circumstance to her she communi- 
cated to him the girl’s explanation and regret. He 
was perfectly satisfied, but ever afterward locked his 
door, not caring for a repetition of the nocturnal 
visit. 

Every afternoon about sunset the mulatto, with 
Mrs. Bertram’s permission, laid aside her sewing 
and went out into the yard for recreation. Soon 
after her arrival at the manor she had stolen to the 
shrubbery where the revolving stone had been con- 
cealed, but finding that the spring had been removed, 
and the rock carefully cemented, she looked blank, 
and muttered: 

u The miserable dwarf must have betrayed the sec- 
ret to the girl while she was hidden in the river 
cave. And how she escaped from the place only 
Satan himself can tell, for I have come to the con- 
clusion that he rules the universe and has taken a 
particular dislike to me because I am so clever at 
scheming and am one day destined to be his rival 
for the throne of darkness, situated in the midst of 
fire and damnation. The girl’s preservation is mirac- 
ulous. She actually swallowed strychnine, one of 
the deadliest of poisons, and yet she lives and is 
well, — lives to thwart me in my plans, — to prevent 
me from regaining my ascendency over the heart of 
the only man I can ever love. Ah, over the heart 
of Vivian Bertram, the very pearl of honor and 
prince of manly beauty. I have toiled too many 
years to relinquish my designs now, so tremble and 
turn pale, Genevieve St. Julian, your hour is ap- 
proaching.” 

On the afternoon, however, after her entrance 


GENEVIEVE 


326 

into Mr. Bertram's sleeping apartment she merely 
paced up and down the deserted walks, thinking, 
and her thoughts ran as follows : 

“How to get rid of my rival, — how to put her 
out of his way forever, — is what I most desire to 
know. He is jealous, madly jealous; he believes 
she is encouraging the attentions of some other man. 
This much I have learned by listening, by observing. 
She is his cousin, too, not Genevieve De Vere, as 
she informed me, but Genevieve St. Julian. Her 
brother watches over her, — her brother, the child 
stolen by old Guatavita years ago, the child of whom 
the old witch has told me; but what good can all 
this knowledge do me. I might forge a letter, tell- 
ing him that she loves him no longer, ^ for I am an 
adept in the art of imitating chirography; but would 
he be satisfied with that? Would he not seek an 
explanation from her own lips? Oh, that I could 
see the dwarf and confer with him; he loves the 
girl with all the ferocity of his brute nature; he 
would not hesitate to carry her off again. I must, — 
I must seek him. Surely he is still lingering in the 
vicinity of the cave, perhaps ignorant of her where- 
abouts. I will ask for a leave of absence to-morrow 
and pay the place a visit. My instincts will guide 
me there, although I am ignorant of its locality. 
Perhaps I may encounter the witch; but no, there 
were no signs of life about her cabin when I passed 
it on my way hither. She may still be in the cave, — 
or dead or, — I know not what. At any rate, I must 
find out." 

The next day was Saturday and in the afternoon 
the sewing girl folded her work neatly and put it 
away in a basket. Then she sought Mrs. Bertram 


THE HOUSEHOLD ANGEL 


327 

and entreated in her assumed, lisping voice permis- 
sion to visit the stores at Glenville, for the purpose 
of purchasing a few necessary articles. Mrs. Ber- 
tram knew that she had money, for she had paid her 
regularly at the expiration of every week, so she 
cheerfully consented. And the mulatto, donning her 
coarse black straw hat, set out on her walk. 

When she had gone some distance from the house 
she turned, looked back, and perceiving no one in 
sight, branched off from the main road and crossing 
the hill in the rear of the mansion, followed the 
path that led by the Black Tarn to the witch’s hut. 
As she approached the hut she saw a man glide 
stealthily through the open door and disappear 
within the deserted cabin. One glance at that hunch- 
backed figure with its tangled mass of fiery, bristling 
hair and beard was sufficient to convince her of its 
identity; so, with quickening steps, she advanced to 
the cabin and entered, only to find it unoccupied. 
But if the dwarf was cunning, Zoe Wren was more 
so. Without pausing for an instant, she approached 
the bedstead, knelt down, crawled under, touched a 
spring, thereby revealing a trap-door, which im- 
mediately flew open. But she sprang back in alarm 
as she beheld a cocked pistol presented at her breast, 
and a pair of greenish-red, wolfish eyes glaring upon 
her from below in the pit. 

“Hold, Ranald,” she cried familiarly, “I am a 
friend, — I might add, an accomplice, if the word 
won’t insult you. Down with your pistol, man, and 
let me descend so that we may renew our pleasant 
acquaintance and chat at leisure.” 

The dwarf slowly raised his bushy head above the 
opening and asked gruffly: 


328 


GENEVIEVE 


“Who are you? What do want with me?” 

“Stella Lorraine,” whispered the woman in reply. 

“What! not the beautiful Stella Lorraine in the 
garb and with the tint of a mulatto?” 

“The very same,” answered the woman with a 
mocking laugh; “but where is your charming com- 
panion, who you vowed should never see the light 
again unless she became your wife?” 

“Ah, and where is your victim, fair poisoner?” 
inquired the dwarf ironically. 

“You heard of that affair, then?” 

“Yes, I have not eavesdropped the people in the 
stores and private residences of Glenville and 
Monterosa to no purpose. At first I thought the 
girl was dead, and on my return to the cave, after 
having been detained away by sickness long enough 
for both her and the witch to have died of starva- 
tion, I fled with horror from the putrid odors that 
greeted my nostrils, taking up my abode in the wild 
woods. I afterward learned that only the witch was 
dead, but whether from hunger or violence I know 
not. The girl was rescued, Beelzebub himself only 
knows how, for the family kept it a secret, the 
world knowing only that Mr. Bertram found her 
wandering in the forest at night. She was obliged 
to have had help, though, for how could she have 
scaled a smooth, perpendicular ten-foot wall? And 
if that had been possible, how could she have dis- 
covered the secret of the hidden spring in the sliding 
stone?” 

“Heaven knows,” replied the woman, “nor can I 
imagine how she so marvelously recovered after 
having swallowed poison. There must be some su- 
pernatural agency at work.” 


THE HOUSEHOLD ANGEL 


329 


“How did you elude pursuit?” inquired the dwarf. 

“By falling headlong into a cellar while trying to 
effect my escape and remaining hidden in an empty 
barrel with a bag thrown over it for days, feasting 
on ruddy-cheeked winter apples and canned peaches, 
which I managed to appropriate without the thefts 
being discovered. I stole out of my prison occasion- 
ally and made the circuit of the cellar, to rest my- 
self or to visit the barrels of crushed sugar scattered 
about here and there. When the excitement sub- 
sided I crept noiselessly out one night while a couple 
of clerks were drawing molasses at some distance 
from my hiding-place.” 

“How did you manage to resume your female 
apparel?” 

“By slipping into a boarding-house unseen and 
appropriating a couple of suits belonging to the 
landlady’s pretty daughter while she flirted with a 
handsome lodger in the parlor and her mother sup- 
erintended the cooking in the basement. That same* 
night, attired in my new garments, I made bold to 
enter a shop where they kept paints and dyes, pur- 
chased one of the latter, together with a wig, in- 
forming the man who stood behind the counter that 
I was going to attend a masquerade. Gaining the 
suburbs of the city as soon as possible, I rapidly 
transformed myself into a pretty mulatto. Since 
then I have been traveling about sewing for people, 
my object being to gain admittance to the home of 
Vivian Bertram, whither I went a short time ago 
with a forged certificate of exemplary character in 
my pocket, endorsed by forged signatures.” 

“You are a keen one,” said the dwarf, emphatic- 
ally and admiringly. “If I was not so enslaved by 


33 ° 


GENEVIEVE 


the matchless charms of your rival, I would kneel 
in suppliance at your feet. Above all things, I would 
like to have a clever wife.” 

The olive hue on the woman’s face hid the vivid 
scarlet flushes that mantled her cheeks and bathed 
her brow, but she paid no heed to the dwarf’s coarse 
pleasantry. She was too politic to incense the mon- 
ster whom she needed to assist her in carrying out a 
purpose which her subtle brain had already con- 
cocted. 

She presently inquired : 

“Have you discovered that your charmer is a 
relative of Mr. Bertram and is now living with her 
brother, who has lately been restored to her, and 
who married his cousin on the morning after we ab- 
ducted the girl?” 

“I am well acquainted with her history, thanks 
to keen ears,” replied the hunchback, “but would 
prefer to know something of her present abode.” 

It may be imagined that Stella Lorraine, alias Zoe 
Wren, was riot long in enlightening him, and when 
the two separated there was a jubilant expression on 
the monster’s hideous face. He vanished into the 
forest while the fiend incarnate in woman’s shape 
rapidly pursued her way to the village, where she 
purchased a few articles and then returned to the 
Vale of Gloom. 


v 


CHAPTER XXVI 

THE ISLAND PRISON 

So blue yon winding river flows. 

It seems an outlet from the sky, 

Where, waiting till the west wind blows, 

The freighted clouds at anchor lie. 

— Longfellow's Poems . 

They enter’d — ’twas a prison room, 

Of stern security and gloom. 

— Scott's “Lady of the Lake.'' 

Things were pursuing the even tenor of their way 
at Buena Vista. Midsummer had arrrived and the 
vapors shimmered in the heavy atmosphere. Visitors 
thronged to see the sisters, whose entertainments 
were always so stylish and pleasant. They became 
very popular, but preferred the society of the family 
at Dovecote to that of their more fashionable 
guests. 

Genevieve sat one evening on the broad piazza 
with its fluted columns and graceful trellis work, 
through which the moonbeams fell like airy, silvery 
shadows. The maiden scarcely noticed the beauty 
of the scene that lay around her. Her eyes were 
fixed attentively upon a perfectly motionless object 
concealed in the shrubbery. Her heart told her who 
331 


332 


GENEVIEVE 


that silent, solitary watcher was, and the girl could 
scarcely resist the impulse which hade her fly to him 
and cast herself into his arms. All day she had been 
conscious of the dear presence, and time and again 
had sought the doors and windows, hoping to catch 
a glimpse of the man who was the earthly idol of 
her young and loving heart. 

She could not now sit still; and unable to remain 
so near, yet be so far, she arose, descended the steps 
of the piazza, and walked in the direction of the 
gates. The figure slowly followed, hiding in the 
shrubbery, and a thousand times the inclination to 
speak, to call his beloved name, to summon him to 
her side, came upon her with an overwhelming, an 
almost irresistible force. 

“Oh, my God,” she moaned, “I am so miserable. 
I hunger and thirst. My heart is full of murmur- 
ings, of bitter complainings. Canst Thou not feed 
me on heavenly manna and give me to drink of the 
Waters of Meribah that I may be satisfied? Canst 
Thou not show me visions of that better land that 
I may cease to cherish earthly hopes and pine for 
earthly affections?” 

The stillness was broken by approaching foot- 
steps. Arthur Trevelyan came with a firm, bound- 
ing tread up the avenue, and extending his hand, 
clasped that of the maiden, expressing in low, tremu- 
lous tones his delight at again being permitted to 
enjoy her companionship. 

Genevieve’s heart sank and lay like lead within 
her bosom. There was no mistaking that love-tuned 
voice, and Mr. Bertram had heard it. She could 
give him no explanation. Politeness compelled her 
to return with her visitor to the house and he, her 


THE ISLAND PRISON 


333 


lover husband, must be left alone, — alone, perhaps 
to judge her harshly, to deem her false. The idea 
was insupportable. The girl walked by the young 
minister’s side, hearing yet scarcely comprehending 
his remarks. Ten minutes later a man rode slowly 
away from the neighborhood of Buena Vista, look- 
ing back longingly, despairingly, upon the brilliant 
lights of the candelabrum in the drawing-room, 
where his wife, his chosen, worshipped wife, loved 
with an idolatry almost sacrilegious, was perhaps 
listening to another’s vows, another’s tale of devo- 
tion. The voiceless anguish of his heart cried to 
God for mercy. The lights faded from view, — the 
wind sighed mournfully through the giant pines, — 
the river chanted the funeral dirge of hope, — the 
stars looked down pityingly upon the wayfarer. 

The next morning Genevieve, weary and anxious, 
having passed a sleepless night and yearning to see 
something more of Mr. Bertram, put on her hat 
and wandered to the river’s edge. She had promised 
her brother that she would never venture far alone 
and thus afford an opportunity to her enemies to 
do her an injury. But the breeze along the water 
was tempting and ere she was aware of it she had 
strayed past the ferry to the old mill, situated just 
beyond and about a half-mile from Buena Vista. 
The ancient building had done good service in its 
time, but was rapidly becoming sadly dilapidated 
and gave fair promise of soon being converted into 
a mass of ruins. Every freshet that came was ex- 
pected to bear it onward with the waters in their 
wild career, or dash it headlong against some of 
the numerous small islands that dotted the bosom of 
the river. The old structure had maintained its 


334 


GENEVIEVE 


ground well and had battled with many a furious 
storm, but nature must have its course; the aged 
must pass away and give place, to the young, the 
active and the vigorous, and so slowly it followed in 
the heaven-ordained track. The wealthy men of 
the neighborhood spoke frequently of demolishing 
it and erecting a newer and comelier building in its 
place, but the blithe young miller laughed at their 
ominous predictions and entreated that the old mill 
his father had built might be permitted to stand 
until its appointed end came. Every crack and 
crevice in it was dear to him; he loved the dark 
green moss that clung to it, the tiny wavelets that 
kissed it, the sparkling sunbeams and mirthful birds^ 
that played and perched upon it, and, above all, he 
loved the memories that clustered around it. Grim 
and ghostly indeed it might appear to those who 
had no attachment for it, but to the miller it was a 
stately and imposing edifice, a very temple of beauty, 
the dwelling-place of a thousand recollections and 
associations. His father had reared it, had tended 
it; he loved his father and his father was dead. 

Genevieve wandered about among the trees and 
shrubs, scarcely conscious of what she was doing, 
until her attention was suddenly aroused by stealthy 
footsteps behind her. Turning, she beheld a stal- 
wart negro man, a very giant in stature, approach- 
ing, or rather creeping, toward her. 

“Who are you?” she demanded. 

“I been be nobody, ma’am,” he replied in a whin- 
ing voice. 

“What is your business and why are you lurking 
in* this place?” questioned the maiden. 

“Oh, as fur dat,” he answered, walling his savage- 


THE ISLAND PRISON 


335 


■j . . ■ 

looking eyes until only the whites were visible, “you 
mus’ ax somebuddy else, ma’am.” 

Our heroine felt uneasy; she suddenly discovered 
that she had strayed too far from home, and she 
began to retrace her steps with rapidity. Looking 
upward at the windows of the mill she saw that 
they were closed and barred and that the old building 
had quite a deserted appearance. Her trepidation 
increased, — the negro attended her footsteps. 

“You’se off, is you?” he said, at the same time 
springing forward and intercepting her. 

“Let me pass, man,” commanded the maiden 
haughtily. 

“No, ma’am, not I! I mus’ bag my game now 
dat I’se got de chance.” 

With the agility of a wild cat he rushed toward 
her, and catching her slender form in his brawny 
arms, placed one powerful hand over her mouth, 
thus preventing an outcry, and hurried away in the 
direction of the river. A small bateau was hidden 
in a crevice between two rocks, and bounding into 
this, the negro unfastened it from the stake to which 
it was attached, and the little vessel was soon skim- 
ming like a bird along the river. The helpless cap- 
tive was laid prostrate upon the damp bottom and 
a gag thrust into her mouth. The negro then paid 
no further attention to her but bent all his energies 
to the task before him, — that of accomplishing his 
escape. Soon the old mill vanished from sight and 
nothing but the stately Broad with its overhanging 
willows was visible. Genevieve’s anguish was ter- 
rible. Bitterly did she reproach herself for having 
ventured so far from home, — deeply did she regret 
being the cause of so much anxiety to those who 


336 


GENEVIEVE 


loved her. A thousand varied emotions flitted over 
her soul; she remembered the dreary days and nights 
spent in the river cave and feared that she was about 
to be compelled to endure miseries perhaps greater 
than those experienced there. Wildly she prayed 
to God for help, but immediate succor did not come. 

On they sped. 

The giant negro really seemed possessed of 
the strength of a Sampson. When all hope of a 
speedy rescue had died out in the maiden’s heart 
the bateau suddenly shot across the swift current to 
land, received a new passenger, and then as quickly 
returned to its former track near the middle of the 
stream. 

A man, or an orang-outang, leaned over the suf- 
fering and almost unconscious maiden, and with a 
thrill of horror she recognized the dirt-begrimed 
visage of the hideous dwarf. 

“My God!” she thought, recoiling in terror, “am 
I again in this creature’s power? Am I again 
doomed to lie in a loathsome prison to await his 
pleasure? O kind heaven, — O merciful Father, — 
aid me to escape or send me a speedy death!” 

Her tender mouth was bleeding. The dwarf re- 
moved the gag, at the same time presenting a loaded 
pistol to her bosom and threatening to kill her if she 
made an outcry, The hapless girl said nothing, but 
moaned feebly in the hopeless anguish of her heart. 

“Ah,” exclaimed the misshapen demon, “you 
thought to outwit me, did you, my beauty? You 
thought to give me the slip, did you, after all the 
pains I have -taken with you? Well, we’ll be even 
yet. When you are mine, which I swear you shall 
be by fair means or foul and that in a few days, I’ll 


THE ISLAND PRISON 


337 

pay you back with interest. I’ll have revenge, so 
help me Satan.” 

“Oh, have pity on me,” gasped the girl. “Have 
pity for God’s sake ! Release me, carry me back 
to my brother, and he will reward you with half of 
his fortune.” 

“Ugh!” replied the dwarf mockingly, “he would 
now, wouldn’t he? You had better say he would 
put a pistol-ball through my brain or consign me to 
the scaffold. No, girl, you have escaped me once, — 
ah, twice, — but you will never do it again, by all 
the powers of darkness !” 

“And you,” cried the maiden, turning her be- 
seeching eyes upon the negro, “you will effect my re- 
lease and aid me to return to my friends for money, 
will you not? Oh!” clasping her hands, “I will 
promise that you shall go unharmed, that you shall 
not be thrown into prison.” 

The negro made no reply except to leer at her 
with his coal-black savage eyes and to thrust out 
his fiery tongue. 

The dwarf said : 

“You need not waste your breath upon him, my 
dear. He is a tool of mine, and if he dared to assist 
you in taking your flight, I would shoot him down on 
the spot. You understand that, Ike, don’t you?” 
turning to the pilot. 

The giant grinned horribly, revealing his long 
white teeth, which resembled the fierce fangs of a 
wolf, and replied promptly: 

“Yes, sah!” 

“You perceive he is all right,” continued the 
dwarf, “so don’t delude yourself with any vain hope, 
but be sensible. Consent to become Mrs. McEagh 


338 


GENEVIEVE 


and I will be the most affectionate of husbands, the 
most devoted of slaves.” 

The girl turned from him in infinite loathing but 
preserved silence, not daring to make any further 
appeal to her relentless captors. 

About three o’clock in the afternoon a small, 
dreary island came into view, and presently they dis- 
embarked, lifting the maiden between them. Then 
they drew the bateau upon land and effectually con- 
cealed it in a clump of bushes. The spot was wild 
and desolate in the extreme, and looked as if it were 
deserted both by God and man. Immense trees of 
original growth completely concealed the interior, 
but the maiden was hurried by her captors away 
from the river, through the forest to the door of a 
miserable hut situated in a small clearing. She after- 
ward discovered that it was the property of the 
herculean negro, who was a liberated man. They 
were met by a stolid-looking mulatto woman, slov- 
enly attired, with great black freckles on her yellow 
skin and innumerable wrinkles upon her bare neck 
and bosom. 

She made no comment whatever, but silently 
ushered her visitors into the squalid apartment. The 
dwarf, after surveying it critically, said : 

“Come, Hat, show the girl to the other room and 
lock her up, so no chance comers can possibly see 
her.” 

The woman arose and led the way to an adjoining 
apartment. The dwarf grasped our heroine’s arm 
and, almost dragging her, followed. The room 
into which they were shown was of small dimensions 
and without a single window. When Genevieve’s 
eyes became accustomed to the gloom she noticed 


THE ISLAND PRISON 


339 


that it, like the outer one, was built of unhewn pine 
logs and that the cracks were filled or daubed with 
red clay. The furniture consisted of a rude bed- 
stead, upon which was placed a filthy straw mattress 
and a pair of ragged and soiled blankets. No chairs, 
no toilet appurtenances, no accommodations of any 
description, were visible, with the exception of a 
three-legged stool, upon which the maiden sank in 
a state bordering upon complete physical pros- 
tration. 

“I guess this will answer, ” observed the monster. 
“There is little danger of escape from this window- 
less room; and you have no visitors, eh, Hat?” 

“No,” responded the woman briefly. 

“Then adieu, fair damsel, for the present. I am 
compelled to be absent until the day after to-mor- 
row, and when I return I shall claim my bonny 
bride.” 

There was a terrible emphasis in his tones, but 
Genevieve raised her head and surveyed him calmly. 

“God will help me,” she replied. “I will yet be 
victorious.” 

The dwarf sneered and hissed through his set 
teeth : 

“God! Who is God? I don’t know Him. He 
is no acquaintance of mine.” 

With this wicked speech he quitted the room fol- 
lowed by the woman, who closed and locked the 
door behind her. 

In the outer apartment preparations for dinner 
were commenced and completed, and in the course 
of an hour the woman returned, bringing a black- 
ened tin plate containing a supply of cornbread, 
cabbage and bacon. Our heroine ate a small por- 


340 


GENEVIEVE 


tion of the former and drank a gourd of water, not 
caring to exhaust her strength by fasting. The 
woman then left her to her own meditations, and 
soon she heard departing footsteps, — those of the 
horrible dwarf. 

Night came on and the girl, completely wearied, 
threw herself upon the wretched bed and slept 
through all the long, dark hours. 

When she awoke a few straggling sunbeams were 
falling through tiny crevices in the mortar, and the 
precious pair in the outer room were busying them- 
selves in arrangements for breakfast. 

Genevieve sat up in bed, pushed back her damp 
and waving mass of hair from her temples, and en- 
deavored to comb it with her slender fingers. Pres- 
ently the mulatto came in and she determined to 
appeal to her compassion. Arising, she advanced 
a few steps, and clasping her hands earnestly, said, 
in a dejected voice, for the spark of hope was 
smouldering in her bosom : 

“Woman, be merciful to me even as you expect 
mercy when you stand before the bar of God. Help 
me to escape from the clutches of Ranald McEagh 
whom I hate, and you will make me your debtor for 
life. My brother is rich and he will amply reward 
you ” 

“That’s all chaff, miss,” replied the woman, impu- 
dently interrupting her. Then she went out and 
slammed the door behind her. 

The maiden sank upon her knees, meekly folded 
her hands upon her bosom, and sent up fervent pray- 
ers to God for her salvation. The breakfast re- 
mained untasted; the weary day dragged itself away 
and was followed by a sleepless night. Again the 


THE ISLAND PRISON 


34i 


dawn came and the hapless captive knew that her 
doom was rapidly approaching, that the fearful 
dwarf would soon return. She had nerved herself to 
meet him and in her heart she resolved to find a 
grave beneath the blue waters of the Broad ere she 
submitted to his wishes. 

After breakfast was over the giant negro started 
to his daily work upon the river bank, where he 
was busily employed in cutting and hewing timber. 
As he stepped from the door he bade his wife call 
him when the villainous dwarf returned, though he 
spoke of him in a more respectful manner than we 
have done. 


CHAPTER XXVII 

THE HERMIT’S CELL 

His eye was blue an<J calm, as is the' sky 
In the serenest noon. 

— Willis. 


Is it not better then to be alone, 

And love earth only for its earthly sake? 

By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, 

Or the pure bosom of the musing lake. 

— Byron. 

An hour passed, and the excited girl in the dingy 
inner room, eagerly, anxiously, fearfully listening, 
heard approaching footsteps. Her heart beat like 
a drum; she deemed her hour at hand, and she was 
fervently praying when the silence was broken by a 
deep-toned, manly voice soliciting the mulatto for a 
coal of fire with which to light a cigar. 

“It is not my enemy,” she murmured. “Who, 
then, is it? Perhaps a friend; at any rate, it may be 
a man who may regard me with compassion. How 
shall I make known my presence to him? How in- 
form him of my situation?” 

At first she thought of going boldly to the door 
and clamoring for assistance, but upon deliberation 
she concluded that this was not the better plan. The 

342 


THE HERMIT’S CELL 


343 


dwarf might be in the vicinity of the cabin, or the 
woman might summon the herculean negro, and the 
man, whoever he was, might be overpowered. Per- 
haps, if he knew of her confinement, he might ac- 
complish her escape by some stratagem or other. 
An idea suggested itself; she thrust her hand into 
her pocket and drew from it a gold pencil, a penknife 
and the old envelope directed to Mr. Bertram which 
she had found on a previous occasion. Hastily tear- 
ing open the latter, she wrote on the inner surface : 

“A maiden, — alone, friendless, and helpless, — is confined in 
the second room of the cabin. She is the unfortunate victim of 
the dwarf, Ranald McEagh, and the prey of the most terrible 
anxiety in regard to her future. Have mercy upon her and 
rescue her, if such a thing be possible. 

“Genevieve St. Julian.” 

“Now, O my God,” she prayed as she crept to 
the wall and picked the mortar with the point of her 
knife, “send him to my deliverance; grant that he 
may come this way and that he may not fail to ob- 
serve this note.” 

The fragrant odor .of a fine Havana floated 
through the crevices above and around the door, and 
the man still lingered in conversation with the mu- 
latto in reference to her husband and his employ- 
ment. He noticed her perturbation and the anxious 
glances she cast toward the prison-chamber. At 
last he bade her good morning and started. Gene- 
vieve thrust the envelope through the opening she 
had made, and her heart beat loudly; she feared he 
would turn and go in a different direction, but, — oh, 
joy! — his steps approached nearer and yet nearer. 
He was coming. He was rounding the corner. The 
paper fluttered a moment in the breeze and was 


344 


GENEVIEVE 


wafted directly to his feet. He paused, regarded it, 
stooped and picked it up; a second sufficed for its 
perusal, and then a pair of keen, sparkling blue eyes 
examined the exterior of the desolate-looking apart- 
ment. There was no indecision about the man; he 
quietly retraced his steps to the cabin door and said 
in an authoritative voice : 

“You have a young lady confined in that room,” 
indicating it with his forefinger. “Release her im- 
mediately, if you do not wish to be punished and 
that summarily.” 

“You’se mistaken, sah,” replied the mulatto. 
“Thar bean’t no gal in thar; hit’s a plunder place.” 

“Give me the key to the door,” he exclaimed, the 
white flame burning in his blue eyes. 

“I ha’n’t got hit, sah. My husband allers keeps 
hit.” 

“Woman, you lie ! Give me the key of that room 
or, by heaven, HI shoot you where you stand!” 

His threat was not more terrible than his appear- 
ance. As he spoke he leveled a pistol at her breast. 
The creature with an ejaculation of alarm drew the 
key from her pocket and threw it at him. He 
stooped and picked it up, then advanced and un- 
locked the door. A few moments later Genevieve, 
pale but imperially beautiful, stood before him, and 
with tears glittering in her starry eyes breathed her 
heartfelt thanks. The stranger interrupted her by 
saying : 

“Come, young lady, let us hasten to depart. If 
you have an enemy, he may be near at hand; and al- 
though I have no fears for our safety, yet I do not 
care to spill a creature’s life-blood when it can be 
avoided.” 


THE HERMIT’S CELL 


345 


He commanded the woman to enter the room 
which our heroine had vacated, and bade her raise 
no outcry lest he should return and put his threat 
0 into execution. Securing the door after she had 
obeyed him, he placed the key in his pocket and with 
a light laugh turned to our heroine and addressing 
her with courtly grace said : 

“If you are ready, Miss St. Julian, we will away 
to a place more suited to so fair a lady.” 

Genevieve signified her desire to be gone, and 
they hurried to the south point of the island where 
a bateau was lying upon the water. Into this the 
stranger sprang and he carefully assisted our hero- 
ine to follow. Soon the island was left behind. 
The maiden stole a glance at her preserver and 
found him attentively and admiringly regarding 
her. He was apparently about forty-five years old, 
with a complexion bronzed by exposure; he had 
tawny hair and beard, and bright, blue eyes. He wore 
a hunting-shirt of green merino, — something after 
the guerrilla style, — gray trousers, round jacket, a 
broad-brimmed Panama hat, and polished boots. 
There was a brace of pistols in his belt, and a sport- 
ing-rifle, together with a pair of wild ducks and a 
few squirrels, was lying in the bottom of the bateau. 
The stranger was the first to break the silence. 

“Your name is quite familiar to me,” he said. 
“I once had a very dear friend whose cognomen 
was the same. He was something older than my- 
self, perhaps five years, but there never lived a 
nobler nor a truer man than Walter St. Julian. 
Was he a relative of yours?” 

“Ah, he was my father, and, thank God, I owe 
my preservation, my happiness, to his friend ! Oh, 


GENEVIEVE 


346 

sir, accept my warmest gratitude for the service 
you have rendered me. in all the coming years I 
can never repay you for this one act. May God 
bless you even as I do.” 

The stranger stretched out his hand and grasped 
the maiden’s. In his rich, deep voice he replied: 

u The Lord be praised that I have been permitted 
to rescue the daughter of my old companion from 
an unhappy fate.” 

“When and where did you know my father?” 
questioned our heroine, warmly returning his pres- 
sure. 

“Years ago and in the south. We met by accident. 
He was a rambling artist and I an excursionist, a 
hunter, a pleasure-seeker. We traversed several 
states together and for months preferred each 
other’s society to that of any other person, but 
Walter was belated one night near a fine old man- 
sion and stopping there to seek shelter fell sick, — 
and fell in love. I continued my wanderings, and 
when we met again sorrow was mine, but a lovely 
girl stood by his side, his bright and beautiful Lilian; 
and he was proud and happy. Since that day I have 
neither seen him nor heard from him.” 

Genevieve wept softly at the stranger’s reminis- 
cences, and he implored her when she was calmer 
to tell him of her father. She gladly complied, and 
tears fell from his glittering blue eyes in memory of 
the noble dead. About noon the little bateau was 
guided to land, and Adrian Adair, as he had intro- 
duced himself to our heroine, assisted her to ascend 
the bank, and having secured the tiny vessel, he es- 
corted her to his retreat, situated in a dense grove, 
some distance from the water’s edge. 


THE HERMIT’S CELL 


347 


“We will rest here and partake of refreshments,” 
he said, “and later we will continue our voyage to 
your brother’s home.” 

Our heroine thought him the handsomest man 
she had ever seen, with the exception of Mr. Ber- 
tram, and she was not surprised at the air of com- 
fort and cleanliness that pervaded his humble log- 
cabin. 

“I am quite a recluse,” he said smilingly. “The 
truth is I am tired of the world, and I dare say it 
is tired of me. I have settled down here in my her- 
mitage as I call it, and I devote my time altogether 
to hunting and fishing. There is something grand 
and awe-inspiring in being alone in a deep solitude 
like this. My spirit seems to hold closer communion 
with its God ; and though I am not happy, yet I am 
content.” 

He proceeded to kindle a fire, boil a pot of coffee 
and broil a couple of partridges upon the coals. 
Afterward he set the table without a cloth and 
placed upon it some cold loaf bread and wild honey. 
Genevieve watched him with a comical expression 
of countenance, and thought how strange it was that 
one so gifted and handsome should be leading such 
a life and performing such menial services when he 
might perhaps occupy the highest station in the 
land. She also surveyed the little room while the 
preparations for dinner were in progress, and never 
in her life had she beheld such a heterogeneous col- 
lection of articles. Heron and crane plumes, tur- 
key and duck tails, a deer’s antlers, wild-bird eggs, 
guns, bowie-knives, powder and shot, shoes, clothes, 
flour, sugar, coffee, cooking utensils and last, but not 
least, a rude bookcase containing the choicest as- 


348 


GENEVIEVE 


sortment of books from the best of authors; and we 
might add, a hundred other things were scattered in 
every direction, though there seemed to be no dis- 
order about the room. 

Directly after dinner a terrific thunder-storm 
burst over them, and torrents of rain continued to 
fall until late in the afternoon. It was then agreed 
that the girl should spend the night at the cabin and 
return to her brother’s early on the following morn- 
ing. They sat by the hearth until late, talking of the 
maiden’s father and mother, of Victor and herself. 
Genevieve longed to ask Mr. Adair of his past life, 
but she feared to do so. The slightest allusion to 
it seemed to sadden him and she felt convinced 
that he was “a man of sorrows and acquainted with 
grief.” At twelve o’clock Mr. Adair entreated her 
to seek repose upon the only bed that the cabin con- 
tained and declared his intention of sitting under the 
shelter just without the door to keep watch. Our 
heroine protested against it. 

“No, indeed,” she said, “you shall not expose 
yourself thus on my account. Remain within; we 
may be besieged by the dwarf and the negro to- 
night. You are my friend; you were my father’s; 
I can trust you even as I would a brother and sleep 
as peacefully as if at home.” 

The gentleman seemed highly gratified by her 
child-like faith, and he resumed his seat, while a 
yearning look came into the fathomless depths of 
his blue eyes. Already he had learned to love the 
gentle, beautiful girl, and he wished in his heart 
that she was his daughter to cherish and protect. 
Genevieve threw herself upon the bed, and ere 
long her regular breathing announced that she was 


THE HERMIT’S CELL 


349 

asleep. Mr. Adair took down his fowling-piece and 
proceeded to clean and load it. 

A couple of hours passed away, and the man, sit- 
ting by the hearth upon which a pine-knot was blaz- 
ing, became conscious from the hoarse growls of 
a ferocious dog chained in the chimney-corner that 
some one was approaching. After listening intently 
for a short time he heard stealthy footsteps and 
presently, low voices. 

“It is the dwarf, accompanied by the negro,” he 
muttered, glancing for the first time at the sleeping 
maiden. “Well, let them come. Tiger can manage 
them. I scarcely know what can be the matter with 
that dog; he has exhibited strange symptoms lately; 
refuses all food; attempts to bite me, and yester- 
day, when I carried him water, fell into the most 
violent convulsions.” 

Some one tried the window to discover if it was 
fastened. At the sime time another person en- 
deavored with as little noise as possible to open 
the door. The man at the hearth leaned back in 
his chair with the utmost indifference, listened and 
waited. The pair outside, finding that they would 
have to force an entrance if they gained one, grew 
impatient and banged at the door. Mr. Adair made 
no reply except to whistle a merry, defiant tune. 
Genevieve awoke and was much frightened, but the 
nonchalance of her host reassured her and disarmed 
her fears. Vigorous blows were aimed at the door. 
Mr. iVdair bore the assault patiently until he saw 
that there was danger of its giving way; then he 
quietly unhooked a chain which extended through a 
hole bored in the log into the house and was fas- 
tened to an iron ring. The next moment the dog 


350 


GENEVIEVE 


bounded like a furious Bengal tiger upon the assail- 
ants, and soon the dwarf uttered a cry of pain, ex- 
claiming: “The rascal has bitten me,” and fled pre- 
cipitately to the river, followed by the negro. 

Genevieve, at Mr. Adair’s request, again sought 
repose. She slept soundly and on awaking found 
that the sun had risen. Her host was absent so she 
arose, and bathing her face and hands, proceeded 
to smooth her hair before the small, circular mirror 
suspended upon the wall. When she had finished, 
her friend, who had been sitting upon the door-step, 
came in and busied himself in making preparations 
for breakfast. When they had eaten he went out 
to feed his dog, but found the noble animal stretched 
in his accustomed place dead. He uttered an ex- 
clamation of regret and surprise. Genevieve has- 
tened to the spot and expressed her sorrow at his 
loss. The tender-hearted master did not leave until 
the faithful creature was buried in a neat grave. 

“The poor fellow must have been mad,” he said 
sorrowfully, as he locked the door of his cabin and 
started with our heroine on the sail to Buena Vista. 

Victor and Arthur Trevelyan had scoured the 
country, and were just taking a brief respite from 
their weary rides in the broad hall when Viola, who 
had stepped out upon the front piazza, descried a 
gentleman and a lady approaching from the direc- 
tion of the river. The latter she instantly recog- 
nized, and her cry of delight brought her husband 
and his friend to the spot. There was much rejoic- 
ing and there were many smiles, a few tears, and 
numerous explanations. Arthur Trevelyan looked 
enviously upon the fortunate man who had rescued 


THE HERMIT’S CELL 


35i 


the lady of his love and to whom he knew she 
would ever afterward feel herself indebted. Mr. 
Adair received the warm thanks of Victor St. Julian 
with stately courtesy, and at his solicitations agreed 
to remain a few days at Buena Vista. On that self- 
same afternoon, however, Victor dispatched a party 
of men headed by a constable and attended by Mr. 
Adair and Arthur Trevelyan to the cabin, but they 
found it deserted, as was the entire island. As 
the sun was nearly down when they started, owing 
to the delay in collecting the men, they were com- 
pelled to spend the night on the island and it was 
late on the ensuing morning when they returned. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

THE GOLDEN BEAM 

As mad as the vext sea — 

— Shakespeare’s “King Lear.” 

A beam of comfort, like the moon through clouds. — 

— Dryden’s “Love Triumphant.” 

It was decided that Genevieve should pay a visit 
to Mrs. Fairmont in New York. Her brother was 
to accompany her and return without her. By that 
time it was supposed that the negro and dwarf 
would no longer fear detection and would probably 
venture back to the cabin or be found lurking in 
its vicinity. All were charmed with the fine appear- 
ance, brilliant intellect and great originality of Mr. 
Adair, and saw him depart for his lonely home in 
the forest glade on the green bank of the silvery 
Broad with the greatest reluctance. 

Preparations were made for Genevieve’s visit. 
She bade adieu to the inmates of Dovecote, and 
one morning when the earth was ablaze with sun- 
shine she kissed Viola and was handed by her 
brother into the traveling carriage. It was night 
when they reached Columbia, and our heroine has- 
tened to her apartment, promising to rejoin her 
352 


THE GOLDEN BEAM 


353 


brother at the supper-table. She laid aside her 
traveling dress, and attired herself in a snowy lawn 
with a broad blue ribbon tied about her waist and 
fashioned into a bow behind. Her hair was per- 
mitted to fall unconfined and was adorned with a 
single fragrant cape-jessamine; at her throat was 
another flower of the same description, and she 
was looking altogether lovely. Her toilet being 
completed, she descended to the supper-room, and 
the very first person she met was Mr. Bertram, 
nobler and more god-like than she had ever beheld 
him. She involuntarily drew back; her bosom 
heaved with a powerful emotion; she could scarcely 
quiet her tremblings. Mr. Bertram had seen her and 
there was no escape. The sight of Genevieve look- 
ing so fair, so winsome, unutterably affected the 
man who loved her. He also paused and his heart 
beat tumultuously, but, recollecting himself, he ad- 
vanced and bowed without articulating a word. Our 
heroine in endeavoring to be calm was cold; she 
merely bade him good-evening and passed on to the 
vacant seat at her brother’s side. The gentleman 
turned and followed her with his eyes, then, with a 
weary sigh, he quitted the apartment. Thus after 
dreary days of separation the husband and wife 
met and parted. 

That evening our heroine entered the reception- 
room, where quite a crowd had assembled, and she 
was, as usual, the acknowledged belle. Mr. Ber- 
tram could not deny himself the pleasure of feast- 
ing his eyes upon her, and he soon made his 
appearance. Immediately after his entrance he was 
joined by Victor, who was much attached to him, 
and the cousins remained in close conference for 


354 


GENEVIEVE 


some hours, their seats being not far distant from 
Genevieve. A gentleman who was devoting himself 
to her, and with whom she had had some former 
acquaintance, remarked toward the close of the 
evening: 

“Upon my word, Miss St. Julian, I am becoming 
terribly jealous of that handsome young fellow, 
Arthur Trevelyan. Rumor declares that you are 
smiling upon him and we all know that he is madly 
in love with you.” 

Genevieve looked up with a smile and a blush. 
She had been teased so much that although the rose 
of modesty would glow upon her cheeks, yet she 
had schooled herself to receive such jests pleasantly. 
But a different construction was placed upon her 
actions by the owner of the large, dark, mournful 
eyes, who overheard the remark and who was at 
that moment observing her. Presently Mr. Bertram 
arose and left the room. The gentleman at her 
side whispered: 

“There goes the most distinguished looking man I 
ever saw. Ah, Miss St. Julian, if you could capti- 
vate him, and I daresay you could do it easily, you 
would indeed gain a treasure.” 

After our heroine had retired from the parlor she 
sat in her apartment, her brain too full of busy 
recollections to permit her to sleep. The hours 
crept slowly away and all the inmates of the great 
hotel slumbered, with two exceptions. 

Genevieve had been sitting for some time with her 
head bowed upon her hands when a noise at the 
window startled her, and conceive of her horror 
when, by the light of the lamp, she beheld elevated 
just above the sill the monstrous head of the dwarf, 


THE GOLDEN BEAM 


355 


with its fiery, bristling hair. Even as she gazed, 
powerless to speak or to call for assistance, he 
stepped from the topmost round of the ladder, 
which he had climbed, into the room. The heat 
was so oppressive that the maiden had left her 
wfindow open for ventilation. 

The hunchback advanced toward her with the fury 
of a demon, the white foam issuing from his parted 
lips, his eyes glaring like a wild beast’s. 

“Cry aloud, if you dare,” he whispered hoarsely, 
“and I will kill you on the spot.” He brandished a 
dangerous knife as he spoke. “Attempt to summon 
aid and I will plunge this to the hilt in your bosom. 
Ah, girl, you little dream that I have followed you 
for the last nine days, fully determined upon your 
recapture. You are mine now, or death’s. Take 
your choice and do it quickly.” 

Genevieve had been studying his face intently. Al- 
though always wild and unnatural, yet he had never 
before appeared so awful, so maniacal; and, remem- 
bering that Mr. Adair had expressed his belief to 
her, on the morning after the dwarf’s attack upon 
the cabin, that the dog was afflicted with madness, 
recollecting also that the latter had bitten the villain, 
a fearful convicion flashed into her mind, — the 
dwarf was mad! 

Oh, the fearful horror of that awful moment! 
An impulse seized upon her; she retreated to the 
washstand, the hunchback following. With a trem- 
bling, uncertain hand and as a last resort she caught 
up a crystal goblet of water and dashed it in his face. 
The miserable victim of hydrophobia, with a howl 
so loud, so prolonged, so demoniacal that every 
human being in the building heard it, sprang to the 


GENEVIEVE 


356 

open window, and, in endeavoring to descend the 
ladder, missed his foothold and fell upon the stone 
pavement below, crushing his skull and mutilating 
his body. Ten minutes later his mangled remains 
were picked up and the next day he found a pauper’s 
grave. 

“Thank God, Genevieve,” whispered Mr. Ber- 
tram to the frightened girl, “one, at least, of your 
enemies can harm you no more.” 

She made no reply, for people were hurrying to 
and fro; but taking his offered arm she descended 
to the parlor, where they were soon joined by others. 
She briefly explained the cause of the alarm. Mr. 
Bertram believed that she was avoiding a conversa- 
tion with him and that thought, together with the 
entrance of those who were anxious to hear an ac- 
count of the affair, put an end to his hopes, though 
what his hopes were he could scarcely tell, and what 
benefit there was to be derived from an interview 
with her he could not afterward imagine. He felt 
that she was lost to him. 

The next morning Victor and Genevieve resumed 
their journey to New York and Mr. Bertram re- 
turned to the Vale of Gloom. 

Our heroine remained in the city until the first of 
November, when she received a letter from Viola 
entreating her to return home as soon as possible as 
she would soon be in need of a housekeeper. Al- 
though Genevieve was enjoying herself, yet she pre- 
ferred the calm pleasures of everyday life at Buena 
Vista to the innumerable brilliant balls and parties 
that she was constantly attending. She therefore 
replied that she would be highly pleased to comply 


THE GOLDEN BEAM 


357 


with her sister’s request. In a few days Victor St. 
Julian arrived in New York and without delay the 
maiden returned with him to his rural home. 

Adrian Adair now became a constant visitor at 
Buena Vista, and his chief pleasure consisted in sit- 
ting by Genevieve’s side and conversing with her. 
During her absence Victor and Viola had sailed up 
the river and spent a delightful day with him in his 
forest home and Viola had much to tell of his ec- 
centricities and pleasantries, of his wild, strange life 
and queer companions. Mr. Adair feared that 
Genevieve would misconstrue his motives in seeking 
her society and he determined to speak to her upon 
the subject lest she should avoid him; for it was plain 
to see that the gentle girl loved him only as a 
brother. Arthur Trevelyan hovered about Gene- 
vieve like a restless spirit; he was devotedly attached 
to her and was fearful that she had given her affec- 
tions to the blue-eyed hero who had rescued her 
from such imminent peril. Mr. Adair witnessed his 
suspense and said to our heroine one day when they 
had strolled down to the river that he believed young 
Trevelyan was playing the jealous lover. A look 
of pain swept over her fair face and for a moment 
she averted it from his gaze. Mr. Adair was puz- 
zled but said nothing more. After a while Gene- 
vieve replied : 

“He is a most noble and honorable gentleman, 
and it pains me exceedingly to know that I shall have 
to send an arrow to his warm and tender heart.” 

“What, Genevieve! You surely do not intend to 
reject the young man? Why, he is a very prince 
among men !” 


358 


GENEVIEVE 


“I shall be compelled to do so if he is unwise 
enough to offer himself after I have so often dis- 
couraged his attentions.” 

“And your heart, my dear child, — is it given to 
another?” 

The maiden frankly raised her starry eyes to his, 
and not wishing to be misunderstood, answered un- 
hesitatingly : 

“My destiny was decided ere I ever beheld Ar- 
thur Trevelyan. I have loved and loved unhappily.” 

Mr. Adair did not insist upon further confidence 
for he saw that he had touched a tender chord; but 
ever after that there was a perfect understanding 
between the pair. Our heroine threw herself upon 
a lichen-covered rock, and Mr. Adair seated himself 
at her feet. Already the wind sighed bleakly among 
the pines and the earth, no longer clothed in the 
verdure of summer, was brown and bare and deso- 
late. About sunset the clouds parted, the sun ap- 
peared for a second, and a long slanting ray of de- 
parting light fell across the maiden’s gold-brown 
hair and extended to the water. 

“My life has been dreary,” she said, “but per- 
haps there is yet hope for me. See this beautiful 
golden beam; may it not be typical of the joy that 
is to come, if not in this world, in the next?” 

Before she had finished speaking she became con- 
scious that an alteration had taken place in her com- 
panion’s countenance. He pressed his hand upon 
his heart and his lips quivered spasmodically. A 
low moan escaped him and our heroine hastened to 
implore an explanation of his emotion. 

“It is nothing,” he answered, brushing his hand 


THE GOLDEN BEAM 


359 

across his brow as if to banish the shadows that had 
gathered there. 

Genevieve was not satisfied; she earnestly re- 
garded him and at last she besought : 

“Tell me, dear friend, something of your past. 
I have known sorrow and can sympathize with you. 
You have long borne a grievous burden, — lighten it 
by giving me your confidence.” 

The man before her considered briefly and then 
replied: 

“Yes, Genevieve, you have interpreted aright. 
My lot has not been altogether a bright one, though 
God has been merciful to me. I will freely confess 
that a portion of the last remark of yours awakened 
old and haunting memories. In referring to that 
bar of light, you used the expression ‘golden beam.’ 
Ah, those two words recalled a thousand delicious 
yet intensely painful recollections!” 

Our heroine started, — what could he mean? She 
thought of the Wandering Sprite who had formerly 
been called the Golden Beam, but what connection 
could there possibly be between this lofty and im- 
posing man and the dusky Indian maid? 

Adrian Adair continued: 

“You have sought my confidence and I will freely 
yield it to you. When your father and I separated 
years ago, he to seek new beauties in a lonely valley 
called the Vale of Gloom and to find there his 
beauteous wife, I continued my solitary wanderings 
and one night came by accident upon an Indian en- 
campment situated on the Catawba River. As the 
tribe was friendly to the whites I did not hesitate 
to take up my abode among them for a brief season, 


360 


GENEVIEVE 


with the determination to gratify my passion for 
hunting and fishing.” 

Our heroine was all attention, her brown eyes 
ablaze with expectation. 

Her friend resumed: 

“Among the Catawbas was a beautiful maiden as 
bright as a star, as pure and as good as a seraph. 
I learned to love her with all the wild idolatry of 
which my passionate nature was capable, forgetful 
of and unheeding the fact that the blood of the red 
men bounded through her veins. We roamed the 
forest together, sailed upon the silvery waters, 
chased the deer, entrapped the partridge in our net, 
and drank deep draughts of love all day long. At 
night we sat in her father’s wigwam and I recounted 
to her my adventures, taught her the language and 
manners of my race and listened with rapture at 
her enthusiastic exclamations and figurative expres- 
sions. 

Weeks, happy weeks, glided away and rip- 
ened into months. Our blissful dream of love came 
to a sudden and direful end. An Indian chief who 
also loved the dark-browed girl and had sought her 
hand in marriage returned from his peregrinations 
in the West, and discovering my affection for her, 
came suddenly upon us one night and threatened our 
instant destruction. The maiden fled and I followed, 
the chieftain and his braves in hot pursuit. We 
sought refuge in a cave upon the .river bank and 
for a time remained unharmed, but the Indians 
tracked us and with a hideous yell bounded into our 
hiding-place. The chief who had sought the star- 
eyed girl for his squaw stamped upon her prostrate 
form and she was borne lifeless from the cavern. 


THE GOLDEN BEAM 361 

The brave who carried her inanimate form returned 
and said that she was dead. 

“While they were making ready to destroy my life 
at the stake in that dark dungeon a rumbling sound 
was heard as if an earthquake was rending the rocks 
in twain. The Indians fled in terrible alarm, as- 
cending from the subterranean to the upper portion 
of the cave by means of a rope which was fastened 
to a stone above. They climbed it with the agility 
of wild cats, and in their haste and alarm forgot to 
remove the rope. I gnawed the cords that bound my 
wrists, and when I had extricated my hands I loosed 
my feet. The rumbling noise ceased and I found 
that only a few large stones had become dislodged 
and had fallen, together with crumbled fragments of 
other rocks. My freedom being gained, I followed 
the example of the Indians, and ascending the rope, 
hastened from the spot. 

“For days I lingered near the encampment, hop- 
ing against hope that my betrothed still lived, but 
I never saw her again, and finally I was convinced 
that the brave had told the truth, that the star of 
my life had set in darkness to rise no more. Years 
have elapsed since then, and until a few months 
ago I have been an alien and a wanderer from the 
land of my birth, striving in vain to forget the low, 
sweet voice and velvet eyes of her I loved; but the 
desire to return was strong in my breast, and I came 
back and settled in my lonely cabin on the Broad, 
only to find myself still haunted by visions and mem- 
ories of the graceful nymph to whom I gave my 
heart’s only and earliest devotion. I have long and 
ardently wished to visit the spot where I last beheld 
her, but my courage fails me at the thought.” 


362 


GENEVIEVE 


‘‘Her name, — her name?” entreated Genevieve, 
who was already convinced of the truth, her eyes 
sparkling like midnight stars. 

Mr. Adair sat for a moment with his head bowed 
upon his knees engaged in mournful remembrances, 
but he heard the eager question and presently re- 
plied: 

“She was called the Golden Beam.” 


CHAPTER XXIX 

LIGHT BEYOND THE GLOOM 


Night on the waves! and the moon is on high, 
Hung like a gem on the brow of the sky; 
Treading its depths, in the power of her might, 
And turning the clouds, as they pass her to light. 

— T. K. Hervey. 


Every heart must have its nightfall — 
Shadows come with every night, 
Blasted hopes — old dreams of glory — 
Are the ghosts that step so light; 
Thronging in the heart’s dim chambers. 
Where they revel with delight, 

Till we shudder at their presence, 

Pale and trembling with affright. 


Our heroine, in the exuberance of her delight, 
sprang to her feet, clapping her hands and crying 
joyfully: 

“Thank God! thank God! I knew it was so. 
I have scarcely been able to restrain myself, — to 
wait patiently until your story was finished. Oh, 
sir, oh, Mr. Adair, would you consent now to accept 
her as a wife, if I should give her to you? Would it 
matter to you if time had dimmed her beauty? But 
1 need not ask you, for she is still lovely. The 
lapse of years has increased her charms, the starry 

363 


364 


GENEVIEVE 


lustre of her eyes is undiminished, her voice is 
sweet and clear.” 

“Genevieve, for heaven's sake,” exclaimed the 
amazed man, also rising, u tell me what you mean. 
Your looks, your words, indicate that ” 

“She lives, she lives, — the Golden Beam, — the 
Wandering Sprite! She lives and mourns for her 
lost lover. She believes him dead, — buried be- 
neath the mass of crumbled rocks. They told her 
so, — the Indian braves, — and every year on the an- 
niversary of his supposed decease she pays a visit 
to the cave by the river and spends the night in vigils 
and prayer. Oh, sir, there never was a more devoted 
love than that she bears for you.” 

“My dear girl,” implored her auditor, “be calm 
and give me a more explicit explanation, — a more 
straightforward history of what you know to be 
true.” 

Thus solicited our heroine resumed her seat. Mr. 
Adair placed himself beside her, and the excited 
maiden related to the eager, anxious listener an ac- 
count of her sojourn in the gloomy underground 
cavern on the Catawba; of her near approach 
to death when she was rescued by the Sprite; of the 
latter’s description of her lost lover and her in- 
consolable grief for him. When she had completed 
her narrative Mr. Adair arose, his countenance 
transfigured with a divine radiance, and clasping the 
maiden’s hand in his own, kissed it tenderly, blessing 
her for the joy she had brought to him, and petition- 
ing that heaven’s choicest blessings might forever 
rest upon her head. 

At the self-same moment a bateau which had been 
lying idly upon the water for some time unobserved 


LIGHT BEYOND THE GLOOM 365 


by the pair upon the bank shot down the river and 
disappeared. As it passed Genevieve saw with a 
wild thrill of regret that the pilot was her lover- 
husband. Her heart throbbed painfully, for she 
knew that he had witnessed and doubtless miscon- 
strued the scene; but she remained silent and in the 
gathering darkness her companion did not observe 
the gloom that settled upon her face. 

In the dim twilight Mr. Bertram was unable to 
distinguish the features of Adrian Adair, especially 
as his hat was slouched low upon his brows. The 
husband carried away a dead weight in his heart, — 
he believed that the man was Arthur Trevelyan. 

“Where is she now, — where is my beloved? Oh, 
tell me, Genevieve,” entreated Mr. Adair, unheed- 
ing the sorrowing look in her liquid orbs. 

“Alas, I know not! We parted on the bank of 
the river, I to rejoin my friends, she to return to 
the cave where she believed you to be lying cold and 
still. I besought her to go with me, but she refused, 
saying she had to go to her aged sire who had been 
left alone.” 

“Ah, old Wakonda! But you do not know 
whether she still lives or not. It has been twelve 
months since you saw her.” 

“Yes, but hope for the best. I dare say she 
dwells in the vast Catawba forest with her father. 
Seek her there and bring her to me, for do I not love 
her as a dear sister? Do I not owe my salvation 
from death to her and my escape from a dreary 
prison to you?” 

Early the next morning Adrian Adair bade an 
affectionate farewell to his friends at Buena Vista, 
leaving Genevieve to acquaint them of his intention, 


366 GENEVIEVE 

and started on his search for the Wandering Spirit. 

It was night in the Indian’s hut; the moon hung 
like a silver globe in the winter sky, attended by a 
few glittering stars. Outside the hut the air was 
keen and piercing, — inside a low fire burned upon 
the hearth and on his humble bed the aged brave 
lay dying. Upon her knees beside him prayed the 
dusky maiden, now so soon to be left alone in that 
great wilderness without a protector, a single friend 
or comforter. Scalding tears ran down her soft 
brown cheeks, and her bosom heaved convulsively 
with its burden of sorrow. 

For hours they had been thus, — the father and the 
child, — and no sound had disturbed the solemn still- 
ness save the occasional rustling of the forest leaves 
and the weird sighing of the winter wind. 

“O, Great Spirit, turn not the light of Thy coun- 
tenance from me,” breathed the weary heart. “Let 
not the dark waters flow over my soul, but bear me 
up by Thy almighty power, and permit me to see 
glimmerings of the hope that may come in the 
future. Guide my father safely, I beseech Thee, 
across the ice-cold stream of death and land him 
securely on the shining shore.” 

The maiden paused, for steps were heard ap- 
proaching, and in that deep woodland solitude, de- 
serted alike by Indian and white man, the sound of 
human footsteps was something strange and un- 
usual. Nearer and nearer they came, then they 
halted at the open doorway. The girl upon her 
bended knees turned and looked; then with a wild 
cry she buried her face in her hands and moaned 
aloud : 


LIGHT BEYOND THE GLOOM 367 


“O Great Spirit, I besought Thee to send me 
beams of hope to comfort me in this my dark hour 
of affliction and Thou hast sent me the shade of my 
lost love. Punish me not for my foolish repinings 
by disturbing his sacred repose, but let him sleep 
again the quiet dreamless sleep, and grant that ere 
long I may join him and my father in the better 
land.” 

Ere she had finished her prayer an arm encircled 
her slender waist, and a manly voice was breathing 
vows of the tenderest love into her ears. For many 
moments Adrian Adair could not persuade the In- 
dian girl that he was with her in the flesh, for she 
had inherited much of the superstition of her tribe, 
and he was compelled to use gentle force in remov- 
ing her hands from her hidden face. But at length 
when he had told his story and explained away her 
doubts she cast herself upon his faithful bosom, 
which was henceforth to be her refuge for aye and 
aye ! 

The aged brave turned his dying eyes upon them, 
and with his vision rendered clearer by a near ap- 
proach to the gates of heaven, he saw and under- 
stood. 

u Ah,” he murmured with his latest breath, “my 
daughter’s pale-faced lover has returned! He did 
not die as I supposed. The Snow Plume will cheer 
the Wandering Spirit when her father has gone to 
the pleasant hunting grounds.” 

Adrian released his dark-browed love from his 
embrace and clasped her father’s hand in both of 
his. A smile of ineffable peace settled upon the war- 
rior’s face, — the cherished objects faded from his 
view and he was gone. 


368 


GENEVIEVE 


The next day Adrian Adair fashioned a rude cof- 
fin and laid within it the pale corpse, beside which he 
and his weeping yet happy betrothed had watched 
during the dark hours of the night. A grave was 
dug beneath the skeleton boughs of the giant forest 
trees and at set of sun they laid the brave to rest 
and left him alone in his glory. 

After a simple repast the Indian girl (we call 
her so, though she was not young) at the desire of 
her lover snatched a brief repose while the blue- 
eyed, tawny-haired hero of her dreams for the past 
fourteen years (she was then thirty) sat in the cabin 
door, alternately praying and rendering thanks for 
the great joy that had come to him. On the fol- 
lowing morning the ox, the goats and the kids were 
turned loose in the forest for a season; the birds 
were freed and soared away heavenward, and the 
maiden, bearing in her arms her glossy cat, set out 
on her journey to the white man’s home, accom- 
panied by her lover and followed by the faithful 
dog. 

They entered the stage at Monterosa, and on the 
ensuing day the dusky Indian girl stood meekly be- 
fore Genevieve, whom she regarded as the angel of 
her life. Our heroine and Viola had prepared for 
her use a handsome crimson merino dress and sacque 
richly embroidered with black silk, gaiter-boots, col- 
lars, cuffs, handkerchiefs, fine underclothes and an 
elegant hat decorated with an ostrich plume. It 
was a sufficient recompense for their labor to hear 
her breathe gratitude and admiration in the beautiful 
and poetic language of her race. She looked strange 
in her new costume, but exceedingly beautiful ; and, in 
the eyes of him who loved her with such deep and 


LIGHT BEYOND THE GLOOM 369 


lasting affection, she appeared as a gem brighter and 
more glorious than the morning star. 

Adrian Adair was not disappointed in the Sprite; 
her purity of mind and person were calculated to 
inspire a passion more fervent than that he had ex- 
perienced in bygone days, and he fully appreciated 
the sublimity of her devotion to him. 

The second evening after their arrival the lovers 
were quietly married in the grand drawing-room at 
Buena Vista by the gray-haired minister; and at the 
urgent solicitation of the St. Julian family they 
took up their abode with them for a short time. 

Soon, as if by the hand of magic, a stately man- 
sion was erected on the loveliest spot that could be 
found near the cave on the Catawba, and Adrian 
Adair bore his Indian princess, as he chose to term 
her, to be its happy mistress. She gradually adopted 
the manners and customs of the white race, and her 
husband, while gratifying his love for the chase, 
procured her more pets than she could well attend, 
not forgetting to recover a number of those that 
had been turned loose in the forest. 

Adrian Adair and the Wandering Sprite had 
stepped out of the shadow into the undimmed sun- 
shine of a perfect, true and tender love. 

But in the meantime other events of importance 
had occurred, and to them we must now direct our 
attention. 

In the first place an overwhelming freshet had 
swept over Broad River, carrying off the old mill 
and sending cold chills to the hearts of the inmates 
of Buena Vista, who hourly sought the portico to 
watch the progress of the waves. The mansion, how- 
ever, was situated upon a commanding eminence, 


370 


GENEVIEVE 


and the river, though greatly swollen, higher than it 
had been for years, higher than it was likely 
to be again in the memory of the present gen- 
eration, left it untroubled, — secure upon its rock 
foundation. 

The island upon which Genevieve had been held 
a prisoner was completely submerged, the trees only 
being visible, and the drowned bodies of the giant 
negro and his mulatto wife were washed ashore 
many miles below the spot. When Genevieve heard 
of the retribution that had overtaken them she shud- 
dered and breathed a prayer for their souls. 

Things had been going on as usual at the Vale of 
Gloom. Mrs. Bertram, owing to a serious indis- 
position from which she had now recovered, post- 
poned indefinitely the visit to her nephew and nieces. 
The mulatto, Zoe Wren, had made herself so use- 
ful to the lady and had been so attentive to her 
during her illness that Mrs. Bertram permitted her 
to prolong her stay, as she was most anxious to do. 
Mr. Bertram was ever restless and unhappy, but for 
his mother’s sake he strove to banish the gloom- 
clouds from his countenance and to wear the sem- 
blance of cheerfulness. He had never noticed Zoe 
Wren, nor had he addressed a single word to her 
during all the months that she had lived under his 
roof. He was as ignorant of her identity as an 
unborn babe. 

One night when they had been expecting a letter 
from Buena Vista for some time the postman en- 
tered and as usual placed the bag before his mis- 
tress. Presently the lady, with a glad smile, tossed 
a letter to her son, saying: 

“This is from Genevieve, Vivian,” 


LIGHT BEYOND THE GLOOM 371 


Mr. Bertram could not trust himself to read it 
in the presence of another, and lighting a candle, he 
proceeded to the library where he might enjoy the 
contents undisturbed. A deathly pallor overspread 
his countenance ere he had perused it, and bowing 
his head upon his hands, he murmured hoarsely: 

“My God, my God, has it come to this? Has 
Genevieve really overcome her scruples so far as 
to desire a divorce from me that she may wed 
Arthur Trevelyan? Ah, it is even so; her actions 
indicate it. He is ever by her side, breathing into 
her ears vows of love, and she has learned to recip- 
rocate his affection. O my God, was there ever a 
sorrow equal to mine. She whom I trusted is 
false, — false as she is beautiful, and my idolatry is 
cast aside as something altogether unworthy of re- 
gard.” 

There close beside him in the shadows, her black, 
malignant eyes burning like comets, was Zoe Wren, 
the mulatto, drinking in his words, gloating over 
his misery and saying to herself: 

“He little dreams that I, the hated, the disowned, 
have wrought this new woe. He does not imagine 
that I have studied the letter which I purloined from 
his mother’s pocket day after day, practicing to imi- 
tate the chirography with all the energy and deter- 
mination of which I am possessed, regarding each 
line and curve until I have acquired a perfection 
which surprises even me. He will never know, — 
for he holds no intercourse with the girl, — that I, 
with my own hands, placed the letter in the mail-bag 
ere it was sent to the office, copying also the rude 
handwriting of the postmaster at Elmdale upon the 
back, knowing that the papers would be thrust in 


372 


GENEVIEVE 


upon it, as no one would care to look inside the bag.” 

Mr. Bertram arose. With a slow, unsteady step 
he sought his mother, and without a word spread 
the epistle before her and turned away. The lady 
preserved a profound silence in regard to its con- 
tents, mourning for her son, yet feeling that it was 
best not to broach the subject. Mr. Bertram paced 
for hours beneath the gray sky, but ere he entered 
the house he had resolved to seek Genevieve and re- 
ceive from her own lips the confirmation of her in- 
fidelity to him. 

While our hero was battling with his silent an- 
guish Victor St. Julian was bending over the rose- 
wood cradle in which reclined his first-born son, 
the sweet pledge of his and Viola’s wedded love, — 
the gift that God had bestowed upon them to knit 
their hearts more closely together. 

“A babe in a house is a well-spring of joy, a mes- 
senger of peace and love, a talent of trust, a loan 
to be rendered back with interest.” Thus felt the 
proud, fond parents of the infant Walter, and faith- 
fully did they endeavor to prove themselves worthy 
of the precious boon that heaven had granted them. 

When the shadow falls upon one place there is 
always sunlight at another. 


CHAPTER XXX 
love’s labor won 

Oh ! had we never, never met, 

Or could this heart e’en now forget, 

How link’d, how bless’d we might have been, 

Had fate not frown’d so dark between. 

— Moore's “Lalla Rookh." 

With thee all toils are sweet; each clime hath charms; 

Earth — sea alike — our world within our arms. 

— Byron's “Bride of Abydos." 

On a cold, clear morning, when a tracery of frost- 
work was visible upon all the window panes, Gene- 
vieve donned her hat and shawl and paid a visit 
to the miller’s wife, a comely dame and the mother 
of two plump, rosy children. She found the inmates 
of the cottage much distressed at the loss of the mill, 
but delighted to see her. The good housewife de- 
clared that it was a real honor to have the young 
lady pay their humble abode a visit, courtesying as 
she spoke. They were in indigent circumstances, as 
they had been bereft by the careening waters of all 
they possessed, and it was with real pleasure that 
our heroine played lady bountiful and supplied their 
wants. She presented the dame with a well-filled 
purse, and the latter was loud in her expressions of 

373 


374 


GENEVIEVE 


gratitude. There were other sufferers whose neces- 
sities were to be considered, and Genevieve short- 
ened her visit to the mill-cottage that she might pro- 
long her walk to the neighboring cabins where the 
fiend of devastation had held high carnival. 

It was late in the afternoon when she returned to 
Buena Vista, and, feeling weary and depressed from 
too much exertion and the scenes of poverty she 
had witnessed, instead of hastening to the mansion, 
she directed her steps to a Persian summer-house, 
which had been rebuilt since the freshet, and throw- 
ing herself upon a rustic bench, was soon absorbed 
in meditation. The vines that wreathed the arbor 
were a tangled mass, brown and bare of leaves; the 
river stretched before her, glistening in the expiring 
rays of the sun like a sheet of molten gold, and the 
drooping willows, robbed of their green apparel, 
resembled dreary skeletons. The maiden’s heart, 
no longer gladdened by endeavors to alleviate the 
sufferings of others, sank wearily within her bosom. 
Presently the double gates swung open and Arthur 
Trevelyan, as handsome as an Adonis, entered; and 
spying Genevieve, he approached the spot and 
placed himself at her feet. 

“This is my throne,” he said; “let kings come 
and bow to it.” 

Genevieve endeavored to banish her sadness and 
to enter into a conversation with the young man. 
She related the events of the day, and expatiated 
upon the miseries of the poor, but her spirits were 
too heavy to admit of a prolonged interview, par- 
ticularly as the young minister seemed predisposed 
to silence. Finding her efforts to entertain him un- 
successful, she arose and begged that he would at- 


LOVE’S LABOR WON 


375 


tend her to the house ; but he detained her, declaring 
that he was wholly unfit for company. After they 
had sat for some time without uttering a word the 
gentleman suddenly broke the silence which was 
becoming oppressive by inquiring : 

“Miss St. Julian, if you felt yourself called to be 
a missionary to the heathen, what course would you 
follow?” 

“Comply with the stern requirements of duty; 
obey the dictates of conscience,” answered the 
maiden unhesitatingly. 

“But suppose you loved a lady, beautiful and ac- 
complished, fit to adorn any station, even the most 
elevated; suppose it would be death to you to part 
from her; what would you do then?” 

Genevieve did not immediately reply. 

He continued: “Suppose you dared not ask her 
to share your perilous journey, and to dwell in an 
unhealthy climate, what plan would you adopt?” 

Genevieve, who saw the drift of his interrogations 
and who had long desired to terminate his suspense, 
at length answered: 

“I would inform her of my situation and give her 
an opportunity to express her opinion.” 

Involuntarily the young man assumed a kneeling 
posture, kissing the maiden’s hand which he clasped 
in his own, not suffering her to withdraw it, and 
while the sun sank to rest and the moon appeared 
such a tale of love was poured forth as might have 
aroused a statue to life, or warmed a cold and pulse- 
less heart. 

So absorbed were they that neither of them 
heeded the grave horseman who rode noiselessly 
along the river road, his dark, stern face turned with 


376 GENEVIEVE 

indescribable anguish upon the pair who were plainly 
visible to him. 

There was no reciprocal emotion kindled in the 
maiden’s breast. She heard her passionate, enthusi- 
astic lover through; then she calmly, though kindly, 
told him that, although deeply sensible of the honor 
he had conferred upon her, it was impossible that 
she should answer him in accordance with his de- 
sires. 

“And why not, dear lady,” he asked, bitterly dis- 
appointed at her refusal. “Surely, if your heart is 
free, an answering spark which might be fanned into 
a flame may be glowing there for me. Oh, cast my 
love not entirely away, I beseech you ! Permit me 
to cherish the hope, without which life will be a 
blank, that some day you may regard me in a favor- 
able light, that you will become mine.” 

“Nay,” replied Genevieve, who determined to tell 
him the truth, “it would be unkind; it would be 
cruel in me to suffer you for a moment to entertain 
such a delusive thought. My friend, as startling as 
the news may be which I have to communicate, nev- 
erthelesss it is true, — I am a wife.” 

The young man sprang to his feet and recoiled a 
few paces from her. 

“Oh, Genevieve,” he cried, “why have you con- 
cealed this from the world? Why have you kept it 
a secret from me when you must have divined my 
love for you ? You surely jest, — you trifle with me.” 

“I do not. I am in earnest. Your own memory, 
if it is not treacherous, will tell you that I have 
never encouraged your attentions, that I have ever 
repelled them.” 

“You speak the truth,” he declared, advancing 


LOVE’S LABOR WON 


377 


and seating himself at her side; “you have ever been 
cold and distant to me, and 1 acquit you of any in- 
tention, of any desire to bring me to your feet; but 
tell me, dear friend, since you can never be other- 
wise, what this dark mystery is and what your rea- 
sons are for hiding your marriage from the world.” 

“I can soon make them apparent,” she said in an- 
swer to his last question, and without further delay 
she proceeded to unfold to him the history of her life 
from her earliest recollection to the present hour. 
When she had finished Arthur Trevelyan arose, and 
perceiving Mr. St. Julian coming down the avenue, 
said hurriedly : 

“God bless .you, Miss St. Julian! I thank you 
for your generous confidence and will not betray it. 
The knowledge that you belong to another will as- 
sist me in overcoming my unhappy love, which I 
now feel to be a crime.” 

“And in forgetting me,” added Genevieve in her 
most engaging manner, “I trust that you will re- 
member another, — unfettered and more worthy.” 

Thus did she delicately allude to the unrequited 
affection of Rosa Vernon. 

• The young man hastened home, his bosom filled 
with wild regrets. Genevieve had never appeared 
more beautiful than at the moment when he found 
that she was lost to him forever. Her winning man- 
ners had made an impression upon him which he 
feared time could never efface. Earth lost its 
charms, — the pines sighed mournfully, — the river 
murmpred a requiem, — the very air, though cold 
and keen, seemed heavy and oppressive. Ah, it is 
well that wounds can heal, often without even leav- 
ing a cicatrice. It is well that forgetfulness comes 


37 § 


GENEVIEVE 


and drives away sorrow, — otherwise life would be 
a dreary desolation. 

When Arthur Trevelyan reached the parsonage 
gate Rosa was leaning upon it, and he could not fail 
to observe the alteration that had taken place in her 
appearance. 

She was much paler and thinner than he had 
ever beheld her, — a spiritual light shone in her dark 
blue eyes and a holy calmness pervaded her counte- 
nance. The girl in her affliction had wrestled at the 
foot of the cross, and, though the burden of her sor- 
rows remained, the burden of her sins had rolled 
away. 

If Arthur did not fail to note the change in her, 
neither did she, with her woman’s powers of pene- 
tration, neglect to observe his altered demeanor. 
He was no longer gay and smiling, but shadows 
thick and profound lurked in his dark eyes; his 
brows were corrugated, and his finely molded lips 
were firm and compressed to prevent the tell-tale 
quivering from being apparent. 

That night Arthur Trevelyan wrestled with his 
sorrow, and, Christian warrior that he was, came 
off conqueror. Rosa, in the room below, — as sleep- 
less as himself, — heard his restless footsteps pacing 
to and fro throughout all the gloomy hours; and in 
the morning when he came down to breakfast, pale 
and looking older, but serene and triumphant, she 
felt convinced that all was over between him and 
Genevieve. 

Victor St. Julian joined his sister immediately 
after the departure of Arthur Trevelyan, and per- 
ceiving from her agitation that she had been per- 
forming an unpleasant task, drew her through the 


LOVE’S LABOR WON 


379 


gate to the river road and they paced slowly to and 
fro in the cold, tranquil moonlight, the maiden con- 
fiding her rejection of the young divine’s suit to him 
and he disclosing his plans for the future to her. 
They were tenderly attached to each other, and as 
they walked the brother’s arm encircled the sister’s 
waist. Viola and the beautiful boy of whom they 
were all so proud were still confined to their apart- 
ment, attended by an experienced nurse. 

The horseman, returning from his ride, came 
slowly up behind the promenading pair upon the 
smooth white road. His eagle glance rested upon 
the entwining arm and upon the maiden’s head which 
drooped against her brother’s shoulder. But a short 
time previous Mr. Bertram had beheld Arthur 
Trevelyan kneeling at our heroine’s feet, and so 
tormented was he by love and jealousy that he 
failed to recognize St. Julian in the shadowy moon- 
light. He believed that Genevieve’s companion was 
none other than his rival. 

“This is the severest blow of all,” he muttered. 
“Fate can have nothing worse in store. Oh, Gene- 
vieve, it is hard to believe that you whom I thought 
so superior to others of your sex would condescend 
to permit liberties, to suffer endearments to be lav- 
ished upon you when you are in reality a wife and 
should regard such familiarities as nothing less than 
pollution.” 

He passed the strollers in a rapid gallop, then 
slackening his pace, he proceeded slowly to the 
village inn at Elmdale, where he, as well as Arthur 
Trevelyan, battled with a sorrow; but unlike the 
latter he did not vanquish the formidable enemy who 
refused to surrender the disputed field. 


380 


GENEVIEVE 


Our hero continued to his home in the sequestered 
valley and besought his mother’s consent to a change 
of scene. His monotonous life was becoming irk- 
some to him, and he longed exceedingly for a voy- 
age over the free, wild waves to good old England, 
where in his boyhood’s green days he had passed 
many delightful hours. Mrs. Bertram readily com- 
plied with his wishes; she, too, greatly desired to 
behold the white cliffs of Albion’s beauteous isle and 
the hawthorn hedges of bonny Scotland. In mem- 
ory she rambled again through the green meadows, 
by the winding, silvery streams, and in the shade- 
embowered park of her ancestral English home. 
She could behold with her mental vision the lofty 
turrets of Montrose Abbey, the frowning mountain 
heights around it, and the deep ravines below it. 
Her fancy carried her back to the sunny days when 
she, a fair young maiden, received the adoring hom- 
age of her noble lover, and in return gave him her 
heart’s best gift, — a true and tender love. 

It was therefore decided that the mother and son 
should proceed to New York and embark on some 
vessel bound for an English port. 

But let us peep in upon the minister’s family at 
the parsonage. Mr. Vernon was reading by the cosy 
fire, with commentaries around him, his feet resting 
upon the polished fender. Miss Hope was busily 
engaged in knitting, occasionally singing fragments 
of an old song, sung often in her girlhood’s days, 
and now and then catching glimpses of that beauti- 
ful isle, — the Long Ago, — up the river Time, where 
the sweetest music was playing and the fairest flow- 
ers blooming. 


LOVE’S LABOR WON 


38i 


Arthur Trevelyan had been sitting by the desk, 
making notes of his sermon for the coming Sabbath, 
but he now looked up, and perceiving that Rosa was 
absent, put on his hat and prepared to follow her. 

The girl sat in the sunny garden near the hives, 
around which a few bees were flying, tempted out 
of their honeycomb palaces by the mild and cloudless 
weather. As the young man approached she raised 
her head and smiled a faint welcome. Arthur.seated 
himself at her side upon the garden bench, and tak- 
ing her hand played idly for some moments with 
her slender fingers. 

At length he said, as if starting from a deep 
reverie : 

u Rosa, little one, how would you like to be a mis- 
sionary’s wife and journey with him to the rising 
sun?” 

The maiden colored violently and after a pause 
replied: ' 

“I do not know, Arthur. There is no probability 
of my becoming such and I have never given the 
subject any consideration.” 

There was another silence, — a long one, — and 
then the young man asked : 

“Rosa, dear little sister, will you be my wife?” 

She started to her feet and placed her hands be- 
fore her face as if to shut out some ecstatic vision 
that was about to charm only to vanish and leave 
her in the darkness of midnight. 

Arthur drew her down beside him, and gently re- 
moving her hands, took her small face between both 
of his and repeated the momentous question. Tears 
gathered in her blue eyes and rolled down her pale 
cheeks. She answered in a low voice : 


382 


GENEVIEVE 


“You mock me, Arthur; you are jesting with me,” 

u Nay, dear Rosa,” he said earnestly, “I was 
never more serious in my life. I have been thinking 
lately of hastening my departure to India, and I long 
to have you as a companion. Your brave, energetic 
heart would cheer me while performing my onerous 
duties and your willing hands could assist me in my 
toils.” 

“But, Arthur,” in a choking voice, “you do not 
love me.” 

“Indeed I do, my precious girl ! — with my whole 
soul,” he answered truthfully. “You are dearer to 
me than my own life.” 

Rosa, wise little woman, forbore to mention his 
former affection for Genevieve, forbore to wound 
his sensitive nature by making an allusion to it, but 
did not hesitate to accept the happiness offered her. 
She put aside entirely and forever all jealous fears, 
and, placing her hands in her lover’s, said: 

“Take me, Arthur; I am yours only, — yours ever- 
more.” 

He imprinted a tender kiss of betrothal upon her 
dewy coral lips and asked: 

“Will you go with me, dear, and leave Papa and 
Aunt Hope for a season?” 

“Yes, they must take care of each other until 
our return. You must obey the behests of duty and 
I must follow your example. Dear Papa and Aunt 
Hope will spare me to assist you in promoting the 
religion of our God.” 

Then the happy maiden clasped her hands, and in 
a voice exquisitely modulated repeated that tender 
address of Ruth to Naomi : 


LOVE’S LABOR WON 


383 


“Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou 
lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people 
and thy God, my God : 

“Where thou diest, will I die and there will I be 
buried; the Lord do so to me and more also, if 
aught but death part thee and me.” 


CHAPTER XXXI 


RETRIBUTION 


And see — the sun himself ! on wings 
Of glory up the East he springs. 

Angel of light ! who from the time 
Those heavens began their march sublime, 

Hath first of all the starry choir 
Trod in his Maker's steps of fire. 

— Moore’s “Lalla Rookh.” 

Down to the dust ! and as thou roll’st away 
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay. 

— Byron’s “Sketch from Private Life.” 

The betrothed pair entered the house hand in 
hand and stood before the aged minister and his 
gentle sister. A blessing was reverently invoked 
upon their bright young heads, and Rosa, overcome 
with joy, sank into her father’s arms and wept upon 
his bosom. 

Arthur Trevelyan had resolutely put from his 
mind all thoughts of the beautiful girl at Buena 
Vista. When he discovered that she was the wife 
of another and that there was no vestige of hope 
for him he yielded to an inevitable destiny and de- 


RETRIBUTION 


385 


termined to reward the unswerving devotion of his 
childhood’s playmate, his boyhood’s companion, his 
manhood’s friend. They were to be married in a 
month and preparations were hastened for that 
event. The ceremony was to be solemnized in the 
village church, so that men, women and children 
might witness the union of their esteemed and be- 
loved young pastor to the daughter of the aged and 
revered minister. None assisted more gladly in 
decorating the little temple dedicated to God than 
did Genevieve. Her own fair hands wove lovely 
garlands of evergreens and with them adorned the 
pulpit and the walls. 

On the eventful morning a crowd was assembled 
in the sanctuary, and conspicuous among the vil- 
lagers and country people was the St. Julian family. 
When all were at the highest point of expectation a 
carriage drove up to the door, Mr. Vernon alighted 
and assisted Miss Hope to enter the church; when 
the former had taken his position another couple 
followed, — the bride and groom. They walked up 
the aisle, the latter looking grave and handsome, the 
former diminutive but very lovely, in her lilac silk, 
with orange flowers in her hat. 

A few well-spoken words sufficed to make them 
man and wife, and then friends approached to offer 
their congratulations, which the bride, her sunny 
face wreathed in the gayest smiles, graciously re- 
ceived. Genevieve, who had advanced among the 
first, now retired and, supporting herself against a 
pillar, with her dark, expressive eyes turned upon 
the pair, she thought: 

“There is happiness for all, but none for me. 
My brother forsook Viola in an hour of infatua- 


386 


GENEVIEVE 


tion, but returned to his allegiance to her. Adrian 
Adair, so long supposed to be dead, came back to 
claim his Indian bride. And now Arthur Trevel- 
yan, forgetting his love for me, has plighted his 
vows to yonder joyous girl. But my pathway re- 
mains dark and shadowy — fate frowns upon my 
hopes, and I am destined to lead a lonely and cheer- 
less existence.” 

Our heroine, with her brother and sister and a 
few other favored friends, dined at the Dovecote, 
and the afternoon passed away pleasantly, the bride 
radiant in beauty and generous in hospitality. 

In another month the gallant ship Missionary, to 
Birmah, outward bound, bore from the land of their 
birth the young Christian hero and his brave but 
tearful wife. While the staunch vessel ploughed 
the Eastern main the wedded pair became more 
firmly united to each other and their love grew 
deeper and stronger every day. 

We might add here that after a sojourn of ten 
years in India, during which time many of the 
heathens were converted to Christianity through 
their instrumentality, they returned to the Dovecote, 
feeling that they had faithfully discharged their 
duties. Arthur, a bronzed and bearded man, took 
the place in the pulpit at Elmdale which had been 
vacated by Mr. Vernon, who had become super- 
annuated; and Rosa, developed into a plump and 
rosy matron, became a household divinity, assisting 
Miss Hope, now sweeter and more placid than ever, 
to perform her daily tasks and to administer to the 
wants of her father’s declining years. 

But long before Arthur Trevelyan’s return the 
memory of his love for the beautiful orphan had 


RETRIBUTION 387 

faded from his mind and his wife was as dear to 
him as the apple of his eye. 

But we anticipate. Let us return to the Vale of 
Gloom and behold what occurred there on the night 
but one before the mother and son intended to set 
out for New York and thence to the Old World. 
They sat together in Mrs. Bertram’s room, and in 
her accustomed corner, on a low chair, was Zoe 
Wren, the pretended mulatto, now an acknowledged 
favorite with the lady and engaged to be her maid 
during her sojourn on Transatlantic shores. 

As we have said before, Mr. Bertram had paid 
little heed to the girl, but it so happened this night 
that he sat directly opposite to her and invariably, 
on lifting his eyes, they would rest for a moment 
upon her graceful, dignified form. A vague recol- 
lection of having seen it in other days occurred to 
his mind, and he at last found himself attentively 
regarding her. The mulatto, unconscious of his 
searching gaze, suddenly raised her bold black eyes 
to his, and at that moment there came a conviction 
to Vivian Bertram, so sudden and terrible and over- 
powering that for a moment he sat as one stupe- 
fied. The girl saw that her eyes had wrought mis- 
chief, and she instantly drooped them before his 
fierce, almost savage look. Mr. Bertram arose, 
and, staggering to the door, locked it. Then he 
withdrew the key, placed it in his pocket and in a 
voice so wild, so strange and unnatural that it 
alarmed the lady, asked: 

“ Mother, who is this girl that you have sheltered 
beneath your roof so long and suffered to sleep in 
your apartment? Who is this girl that penetrated 


3 88 


GENEVIEVE 


to my chamber in the dead of night, arousing me 
from my slumbers by her revengeful mutterings, and 
then pretended to you that she both walked and 
talked in her sleep?” 

Zoe Wren bowed her head upon her hands and 
remained silent in dreadful suspense. Mrs. Ber- 
tram, completely mystified by her son’s behavior, 
reiterated what she had told him on the evening of 
the mulatto’s arrival. 

U A sewing girl!” repeated the enraged man in a 
voice of thunder. “Oh, my mother! how you are 
deceived — how I have been duped! That creature 
whom you have fed and clothed and housed as a 
mulatto seamstress is — listen, my mother, and be- 
lieve, for I speak the truth — that viper whom you 
have nourished is a poisoner — a murderess — and 
her name is Stella Lorraine.” 

Mrs. Bertram sank back into her seat, from which 
she had started in affright, pale, trembling, and un- 
able to speak or to move. 

The disguised woman sprang to her feet, and in 
a voice no longer lisping and assumed, cried out: 

“My God! he has discovered my identity. Vivian 
knows that I am Stella Lorraine!” 

He bounded toward her; she eluded his grasp, 
and, flying to the door, turned the handle, but it re- 
fused to yield. A second time evading him, she took 
refuge behind the massive curtained mahogany bed- 
stead. In doing so she lost her equilibrium and 
stumbled and fell. Placing her hand against the 
wall to assist herself in regaining a standing posture, 
she accidentally touched the secret spring and the 
hidden door flew open, revealing the dark and nar- 
row staircase, up which she bounded, the infuriated 


RETRIBUTION 


389 


master of the mansion in swift pursuit. At the head 
of the stairway she encountered the door of the 
turret chamber, which proved to be unlocked; but 
the other openings into the adjoining apartments 
were securely fastened, and the fugitive now felt 
that she was a captive. There was no other mode 
of egress from the chamber except that by which 
she had entered, and escape by that means was now 
impossible, since her enemy was already nearing the 
threshold. With an almost incredible celerity, she 
approached the window, lifted the sash and, throw- 
ing open the blinds, stood like a lioness at bay. Mr. 
Bertram hurried into the room, and, not immedi- 
ately perceiving her intention, advanced toward her. 
With a mocking, defiant laugh, she sprang through 
the open window, crying : 

“I consign my body to death and the grave and 
the worms, Vivian Bertram, but my neck shall never 
feel the hangman’s rope!” 

“Avenging God!” exclaimed her pursuer, amazed, 
petrified, “forgive her sins and pardon me for my 
share in causing her soul to be hurled into an awful 
eternity, unprepared to appear before Thy just but 
dread tribunal.” 

That night the female servants at Bertram 
Manor, in obedience to the commands of their mas- 
ter, removed the discoloring from the body of the 
suicide and robed it in the white vestments of the 
grave. With folded arms Vivian Bertram stood 
beside the pale corpse and long and silently re- 
garded the cold, still face, but there was no regret 
in his heart, no awakened love in his bosom; he 
merely wished to satisfy himself beyond the shadow 
of a doubt that Genevieve’s last foe was powerless 


390 


GENEVIEVE 


to harm her more. That same night he wrote to 
our heroine: 


“Genevieve: Your letter has been received, your perfidy is 
known, and I consent to the divorce which you desire. Your last 
enemy is dead. Stella Lorraine came to this house disguised as 
a mulatto sewing-girl and remained here for months unsuspected, 
but at last I recognized her, and while attempting her capture 
pursued her to the West Tower, from a window of which she 
leaped to the ground, thus committing suicide. She now lies a 
corpse in one of the unoccupied chambers of this house and 
to-morrow will be borne to a grave in the depths of the forest. 
Ere this letter reaches its destination I will be on my way with 
my mother to the Old World. 

“Farewell, Genevieve! May the new life that is opening 
before you bring happiness in its train and may you forget how 
cruelly you have tortured the heart of 

“Vivian Bertram.” 

On the following day a coroner’s inquest was held 
over the dead body and the verdict rendered was : 

“That the deceased, who was well known to be a 
criminal, came to her death while fleeing from jus- 
tice, by precipitating herself from an open window in 
the West Tower of Bertram Manor.” 

Thus the affair ended, and an account of it never 
even found its way to the newspapers. 

Late in the afternoon the suicide’s remains were 
interred, and years afterward Genevieve’s children, 
finding the desolate mound and compassionating its 
loneliness, planted wild violets upon the damp earth, 
while their mother watched them and hoped that 
her wretched enemy had breathed an effectual, fer- 
vent prayer in her last moments and that her sins 
had been washed white in the blood of the Lamb. 

The morning after the burial the mother and son 
bade farewell to the Vale, and before many weeks 
the broad blue ocean rolled between it and them. 


RETRIBUTION 


39i 


Mr. Bertram mailed his letter in Columbia, and 
our heroine read it with indescribable emotions. 
She rejoiced at the death of her foe, but mourned 
the cruel misunderstanding which separated her 
from her lover at the very moment when they might 
have been so happily united. She compared her 
situation to that of Tantalus, who, when he at- 
tempted to grasp the overhanging boughs laden 
with tempting fruit with which he desired to ap- 
pease his hunger, saw them with pain receding from 
his hand (being gently blown away by the winds) , as 
likewise did the water in which he was chained when 
he endeavored to stoop and quench his consuming 
thirst. Not knowing where a letter should be ad- 
dressed to Mr. Bertram, she determined to keep the 
contents of his epistle a secret and to await in pa- 
tience further developments. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


THE VALE OF SUNBEAMS 

Hear the mellow wedding bells — 

Golden bells 

After nightfall conies the morning, 

And the golden beams of day, 

Waking joy in every .valley, 

Drive the shadowy ghosts away. 

Every heart shall have its morning, 

Hope will shine with cheering ray, 

Then the ghosts that come with heartthrobs, 
Powerless will flee away. 

A year with its chequered lights and shadows 
glided away. The pleasant monotony at Buena 
Vista was varied only by occasional calls from the 
neighboring families, except at one time when Mr. 
and Mrs. Fairmont came from the North to pay 
their foster son a protracted visit. The worthy pair 
were rejoiced at the wedded bliss and proud pa- 
ternity of the young man whom they had reared, 
and lavish were the presents they bestowed upon 
his infant offspring. At their urgent entreaty Gene- 
vieve returned home with them and spent two 
months in New York, where she received several 
eligible offers of marriage, all of which, of course, 
she steadfastly refused. But our heroine was now 
at Buena Vista, and was preparing to put her fre- 
392 


THE VALE OF SUNBEAMS 393 

quently mentioned designs into execution and visit 
Adrian Adair and his Indian queen. 

Attired in her traveling suit, one bright, frosty- 
winter morning she was assisted by her brother to 
enter the carriage. He bade her an affectionate 
farewell, and, attended by her maid and the faithful 
elderly colored coachman, she commenced her jour- 
ney. 

A pleasant night was spent at the Rising Star in 
Spring Vale, and the next day, after a visit to her 
father’s grave, Genevieve continued her ride to 
Glenville. It was late when she reached the village, 
too late to proceed to the residence of her friends 
ere nightfall, and, not relishing the idea of remain- 
ing at the small hotel, she resolved upon paying a 
brief visit to Bertram Manor. Afterward she would 
return and spend the night at the overseer’s lodge. 

The clouds were gathering when the carriage 
again started, and ere they reached the spring on 
the road the sky was quite gloomy. Our heroine 
commanded the coachman to halt, and, leaving him 
and the maid in charge of the vehicle, she proceeded 
alone and on foot to the mansion, not caring that 
her servants should witness her emotion. 

To her surprise, the gate, though closed, was un- 
locked, and, easily gaining an entrance, she walked 
up one of the broad sanded semi-circular paths to 
the stone steps, while a thousand tender recollec- 
tions poured in upon her soul. The memory of 
Mr. Bertram’s love and despair came near over- 
powering her and for many moments she leaned 
against one of the carved lions, the bright tears 
raining down her cheeks. At last, perceiving that 


394 


GENEVIEVE 


old Oscar, who had been outside the gate, was ap- 
proaching, and, not caring that he should behold her 
sorrow, she turned the handle of the door and 
found it unlocked. 

“It is strange,” she mused, “that the house should 
be open and unguarded — something surely must be 
amiss.” 

Just then her eyes caught the glimmer of a light 
proceeding from the library, and, noticing that the 
door was slightly ajar, she advanced and entered the 
desolate hall. 

On her entrance into the room endeared to her 
by a thousand holy associations, Genevieve pushed 
her traveling hat back from her head and sank 
wearily into a chair. For a few moments she did 
not perceive the stately figure reclining upon a sofa 
on the opposite side of the apartment, but soon, no 
longer blinded by the light, she saw and instantly 
recognized it as that of Mr. Bertram. He had 
been lying with his eyes fixed upon the door, and 
when it opened Genevieve’s pure, sweet face, framed 
in shining ringlets, dawned upon his astonished 
vision like a rising star. His first impulse was to 
hasten forward and clasp to his bosom the being 
most highly prized, most tenderly loved, of all the 
creatures of earth, but her imagined infidelity to 
him, her supposed preference for another, rushed 
into his mind, stifling the sweet emotion. He arose 
and advanced a step, then said in cold, measured 
tones : 

“Mrs. Trevelyan, I assume. To what, madam, 
am I indebted for the honor of this visit?” 

For some moments Genevieve did not reply, but, 


THE VALE OF SUNBEAMS 395 

finally controlling her agitation, she arose and an- 
swered somewhat haughtily : 

“I do not understand your meaning, Mr. Ber- 
tram; but of one thing I am well assured — my pres- 
ence is an intrusion, and I am an unwelcome guest. 
I will hasten to relieve you of my society, but before 
my departure I beg leave to inform you that I came 
to this place because it was dear to me, because 
pleasant memories were entwined around it. I pro- 
pose, however, to remain but a short time. My in- 
tention is to spend the night at Mr. Wayne’s and 
to go thence to-morrow to the residence of my 
friends, Mr. and Mrs. Adair, who have lately set- 
tled upon the Catawba. Be assured, sir, that I was 
altogether ignorant of your return home and I im- 
agined that you were still in Europe. No one has 
even hinted to me that you had suddenly returned.” 

At the music of Genevieve’s voice Mr. Bertram’s 
heart, like the wheel of Ixion when the melodious 
notes of Orpheus were heard, stood still. She was 
about to leave ; he could not part from her in anger, 
for, although another’s, yet she was inexpressibly 
dear to him. He approached nearer, his pride sub- 
dued, and said in a pleading voice : 

“Genevieve, I entreat you to remain. Forget my 
harshness and consent to do so. The clouds are 
lowering and night is already at hand. Does Mr. 
Trevelyan accompany you?” 

Our heroine began to realize that Mr. Bertram 
believed her to be the young minister’s wife — the 
thought came like the uplifting of a sombre cloud 
and she almost archly replied : 

“Mr. Bertram, you are laboring under a wrong 
impression. Mr. Trevelyan is not my escort.” 


396 


GENEVIEVE 


“Ah, he permitted you, then, to come alone! His 
fondness does not equal mine. I could never have 
suffered you to leave my sight.” 

The maiden’s eyes fairly twinkled; she laughed 
a low, rippling, musical laugh and reseated herself. 

“Unkind, cruel Genevieve!” exclaimed the agi- 
tated man, pacing to and fro; “you add insult to 
injury; you mock at my distress. Is it thus that 
you would avenge yourself upon me for my attack 
upon your husband because of his indifference to 
you?” 

The lovely girl was in reality deeply moved by 
Mr. Bertram’s grief — it was as a dagger to her soul 
and she resolved to terminate his suspense. She 
therefore answered demurely, though with an audi- 
ble tremor in her tones : 

“I am one of those disconsolate maidens who 
can lay no claims to a husband; or, if that does not' 
suit you, then I will proclaim myself a deserted 
wife.” 

He paused suddenly and intently regarded her. 
Their eyes met and, wizard of hearts that he was, 
he could not fail to divine the language of hers. 
He advanced and, kneeling before her, asked wildly: 

“Genevieve, my darling, what do you — what can 
you mean? Tell me truly, are you the wife of Ar- 
thur Trevelyan?” 

“Nay. Another fills that place and dwells with 
him in the Orient, where they teach the heathen 
children the unfading truths of the Bible.” 

“But you loved him and he you.” 

“The latter part of your assertion at one time 
was the case; but I deny the correctness of the for- 
mer. I gave Arthur Trevelyan no encouragement, 


THE VALE OF SUNBEAMS 397 

and at the earliest opportunity informed him that I 
considered myself the property of another.” 

“The letter, Genevieve, the cruel letter, in which 
you besought my consent to a divorce that you might 
wed him! How can you explain that?” 

“By pronouncing it a forgery. The woman, 
Stella Lorraine, with her wonderful powers of imi- 
tation, practiced a fraud upon you. She doubtless 
was the author of the missive.” 

“Oh, my God! it may — it must have been so, 
since you have not united your destiny with his, and 
all these weary months I have wrestled with my an- 
guish when you might have explained away my 
doubts. But tell me, Genevieve, were you not per- 
mitting him to kiss your hand on the afternoon when 
I sailed up the river in a bateau and lingered con- 
cealed near you?” 

Our heroine remembered the scene and her re- 
grets. She answered: 

“It — was not Arthur Trevelyan whom you be- 
held, but Adrian Adair, my preserver, my rescuer 
from the island prison, whither the negro and the 
dwarf had borne me. I had just communicated to 
him the fact that his Indian betrothed, the Wander- 
ing Sprite, still lived.” 

“And the night that you walked upon the river 
road with Arthur Trevelyan’s arm about your 
waist?” 

Genevieve was silent a moment — recalling the 
scene — then she said gravely: 

“Ah, Mr. Bertram, with all your boasted powers 
of penetration, how little you understand a woman’s 
truth and purity. On the evening you mention Mr. 
Trevelyan had indeed sought me in the summer 


398 


GENEVIEVE 


house and declared his love, but I rejected his suit, 
and when he departed I walked to and fro upon 
the river road, my waist encircled by my brother’s 
arm.” 

She would have said more, but he did not permit 
it. Still kneeling at her feet, he clasped both her 
hands in his, pressed them passionately to his heart 
and lips, and laid his cheek upon them. 

“And you,” he murmured, “my own, my precious 
wife, my earthly idol, soul of my soul, light of my 
existence, — after all these doubts can you love me 
still?” 

His dark, suffering eyes burned her face — there 
was a touching, an irresistible pathos in his tones. 
The maiden bowed her head upon his shoulder, her 
golden-brown curls swept over his bosom. He lis- 
tened eagerly, intently, breathlessly. The answer 
came at last, low and sweet: 

“I love you, only you, ever you.” 

“And you will come back to me, now that every 
obstacle to our union is removed?” 

“Gladly— thankfully.” 

No longer satisfied with merely holding her hands, 
Mr. Bertram arose, took her in his arms and folded 
her closer and closer to his faithful breast, while the 
angels sang a sublime diapason over the happiness 
of the deserving pair. 

As late as it was, Mr. Bertram dispatched a car- 
riage for Mrs. Wayne, who left her six children in 
her husband’s care and came over to the manor, all 
smiles and welcomes, to greet Miss St. Julian. But 
before her arrival, after Genevieve’s servants and 
horses had been cared for, the reconciled lovers 
sat in the library and related to each other all that 


THE VALE OF SUNBEAMS 


399 


had occurred in their respective lives since their sep- 
aration at Glenville more than two years previous. 

Mr. Bertram accounted to Genevieve for his sud- 
den return by informing her that his mother’s health 
had failed in Europe and that the physicians had 
recommended a return to her native land, or, rather, 
her adopted land. Mrs. Bertram had remained in 
Columbia, under the care of a skillful practitioner, 
until her son could visit the manor and prepare it 
for her reception. 

At midnight Mrs. Wayne and our heroine re- 
tired, Mr. Bertram escorting the latter to the door 
of his mother’s room, which was to be her sleeping 
apartment for the night. He then returned to the 
library and threw himself upon the sofa, where he 
spent the hours intervening between that time and 
daylight in pondering over the charming vistas that 
were opening before him and in thanking God that 
the mists had been cleared away from his life. 

Genevieve arose with the birds at the dawn of 
day, and, making a most becoming toilet, hastened 
to join Mr. Bertram, who, as cold as it was, was 
awaiting her in the hall, declaring that he feared 
she might steal away from him unobserved. He 
led her to the library, where they seated themselves 
by the glowing fire, our heroine observing with re- 
gret that her lover (for she could not conscien- 
tiously say husband) was looking older, though she 
was compelled to acknowledge to herself handsomer 
and more kingly than ever. His raven locks were 
slightly interspersed with threads of silver, and tears 
gathered in Genevieve’s eyes when her heart re- 
minded her that she was the cause. 

After breakfast the maiden resumed her journey 


400 


GENEVIEVE 


to the residence of Mr. Adair, accompanied by her 
lover, and several delightful days were spent in his 
society and that of her friends; nor did Mr. Ber- 
tram leave her until he saw her safely within the 
walls of Buena Vista, where you may be sure there 
was much rejoicing over the new-found happiness 
of the beautiful sister. 

Genevieve frankly confessed to Mr. Bertram that 
she was not satisfied with her former marriage, and, 
willing to please her, eager to get her upon any 
terms, he gladly consented to another. He was an 
ardent lover and the girl’s eyes were ever drooping 
before his impassioned glances. To get rid of him 
she appointed an early day for their union; he then 
hastened to Columbia and attended his mother home, 
that preparations might be made for the all impor- 
tant event. 

There was a grand wedding at Buena Vista, and 
all the beauty and chivalry for miles around were 
gathered there in honor of the occasion. The bride- 
groom’s second wedding gift was a perfect minia- 
ture of himself, set with brilliants, and the bride 
wore it, suspended by a slender gold chain, around 
her neck. Mr. Vernon performed the ceremony, 
and with the utmost delight did Mr. Bertram re- 
ceive his lovely wife as the choicest gift that heaven 
could bestow. 

Three days later the party adjourned to the Vale 
of Gloom, which was brilliantly illuminated, night 
having overtaken the travelers on the road. Lights 
blazed throughout the grounds, and the scene was 
one of enchantment. The overseer and his wife 
were there, and Genevieve, thoughtful of others even 
in that hour of joy, did not neglect to send the chil- 


THE VALE OF SUNBEAMS 


401 


dren a quantity of confectioneries sufficient to have 
made them sick for months, had not their wise 
mother placed the greater portion beyond their 
reach. 

A few days afterward a magnificent banquet was 
served at the manor, and the elder Mrs. Bertram, 
no longer caring to be formal and unsociable, had 
invited the whole neighborhood to her house. The 
bridegroom, proud and happy, looked like an Apollo 
in his costly wedding garments, and the bride was 
royally beautiful in pale blue satin, white lace, pearls 
and orange flowers. 

We now come to the closing scene in our drama. 
Five blissful years have passed over the inmates of 
the manor and the other inhabitants of the Vale, 
now the Vale of Gloom no longer, though the coun- 
tryfolk, accustomed to the term, still persist in call- 
ing it so. The old mansion has been remodeled, 
repainted, refurnished and altogether beautified. 

It is blossoming spring and the thriving young 
orchard is laden with blooms, while parterres of 
flowers gem the grounds. Much of the dense shrub- 
bery has been removed; the remainder has been 
trimmed, and sparkling sunbeams dance upon the 
smiling lake. A halo ever encircles the head of the 
graceful water nymph, and sometimes the hues of 
the rainbow can be clearly distinguished floating in 
the air above her. The fountain scintillates in the 
sun’s bright rays, and the crystal drops are show- 
ered upon the green grass beneath like diamonds 
upon a bed of emeralds. Flocks of cattle of every 
description browse upon the hills and plains, and 
waving fields of grain extend in some directions evea 


402 


GENEVIEVE 


to the Catawba. The vernal air is redolent of fra- 
grance, and the birds, no longer chanting funeral 
dirges as they perch disconsolately upon the trees, 
strain their tuneful throats in warbling praises of 
their native valley. Even the streamlet has ban- 
ished its silence and murmurs tender music as it 
winds its way through the stately forest to the rolling 
river. 

Upon the lawn in front of the mansion are gath- 
ered the members of the Bertram family. By the 
stone steps stands a lady past the meridian of life, 
yet as stately and handsome as in bygone days, a 
happy light beaming in her placid face. In her we 
recognize the senior Mrs. Bertram, the grandmother 
of the slender, beautiful boy, who is busily engaged 
in whirling his hoop upon the green sward, clapping 
his hands and shouting with glee over his exhila- 
rating sport. In that dark-browed lad, with his raven 
locks and piercing, eagle glance, we behold the pride 
and joy of the house, the first born of Vivian and 
Genevieve Bertram, the “softened image” of his 
father, the idol of his granddame, the second Vivian 
Bertram. 

Some distance off, watching the playful gambols 
of the incomparable twin girls, — Marion and Lilian, 
— whose tottering footsteps their patient nurse, none 
other than Pinky, has been proudly guiding, stand 
the parents, the husband’s arm supporting the wife 
and the wife’s head resting upon the husband’s 
shoulder. Mr. Bertram, from whose face the gloom 
clouds have forever flown, is smiling down upon the 
acknowledged sultana of his heart, on whose regal 
brows the diadem of beauty sparkles with undimmed 
radiance. No thought of Stella Lorraine, no shad- 


THE VALE OF SUNBEAMS 403 


owy phantom of the past, had ever come, or would 
ever come in the future, to mar the perfect bliss of 
their wedded life. 

While the birds are warbling upon the leafy 
boughs, the boy is shouting over his whirling hoop, 
and the twins are prattling in an unknown tongue, 
the husband stoops and whispers into the ear of his 
children’s mother: 

“My own, my wife, in an hour like this, when we 
dwell securely within our home, surrounded by all 
the luxuries of life and blessed with the precious 
charges which God has entrusted to our care, I feel 
fully recompensed for all the suffering which I en- 
dured ere you came to be the crown of my manhood 
and angel of my existence.” 

While her tender, glowing eyes look up into his 
and reveal their unutterable love, we will take oc- 
casion to bid the reader a kind adieu. 


The End. 








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